


The Proud Man's Contumely

by Slytherkins



Series: Dark Creatures [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Dark, Dark Creatures, Depression, Didn't Know They Were Dating, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Magic, Slash, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trapped, Vampires, Werewolves, Woke Up Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 46
Words: 161,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Slytherkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/></p>
</div>Post-OotP/HBP-divergent.<p>After losing Sirius, Harry feels set adrift. A plot on his life costs him more than just the protections of his familial home, and he finds unexpected comfort in his new guardian, but things soon go from bad to worse. Voldemort takes increasing advantage of Harry's instability. He's searching for a new weapon to use against the Boy Who Lived, while Harry learns a few of his own. Relationships blossom and change, secrets are revealed, enemies become friends and vice versa. Though, Harry starts to suspect his worst enemy may just be himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pale Cast of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> As a thank you for the lovely artwork she did for chapter one, I wrote Lunulet a one-shot called Sacrosanct. (I secretly like it better than PMC. But shhh, don't tell anyone.) When you finish this monster, feel free to check it out.

After eleven years of receiving what was little more than gift-wrapped refuse, Harry Potter never dreamed the day would come when he would begrudge the sight of real presents. And yet as the sun rose on his sixteenth birthday, bringing with it a small peck of parcel-laden fowl, Harry somehow found it difficult to feel grateful. The events at the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts still haunted him, having much the same effect as being handcuffed to a dementor. Outrage and disbelief had given way to solemn withdraw shortly after he'd arrived back at Privet Drive, and he'd spent the last two months lying dejectedly in his room, replaying that last week of school in his mind and growing more and more sullen with each passing day. As far as he was concerned, the fact that this day also happened to be his birthday didn't change matters in any way.

The owls came almost all at once, and Harry had relieved them in turn and sent them away without an utterance of gratitude. Hedwig, who had been thoughtful enough to go and fetch Ron's gift to him without even being asked to do so, made quite a fuss, ruffling her feathers and clicking her beak loudly at him, which Harry simply ignored. Highly indignant, she flew past her open cage and back into the morning sky after the others. Harry watched her go, unable to muster any remorse, then raked the parcels into a pile at the foot of his bed and lay crossways on the mattress beside them.

"Any normal boy," he thought to himself, "would be happy to see a pile of presents. Any normal boy might at least be excited knowing that he was sixteen, in many ways considered a man now."

So why was it Harry was so bereft of cheer?

"Because I'm not a normal boy," he thought with a smirk. It was a fact that had repeatedly been drilled home to him since he was eleven years old. Only now, what made him different wasn't just that he was a wizard. That no longer seemed like anything unusual to him. Neither was it even that he was 'The Boy Who Lived'; vanquisher of the dreaded Dark Lord (a feat he little remembered when he could help it and in which he had played no conscious part.) What genuinely made Harry different was that he was, he knew now, the designated saviour for not only the Wizarding world but potentially the Muggle one as well. It was a role Harry really had no desire to fulfill. Thinking back on his conversation with Dumbledore only two short months ago, during which this dire prophecy had been revealed, Harry couldn't help but wonder wryly what Christ must have felt when the angel had come down to inform Him of His destiny.

"At least," Harry reasoned, "I'm not being asked to martyr myself." Indeed, the fate of the world seemed to hinge on his continued survival. It was for this reason he was presently imprisoned in this nightmare of Muggle conformity. Despite the fact that his friends' threats had worked a kind of incomprehensible magic on the Dursleys' outward behaviour toward him, Harry found Privet Drive to be nigh unbearable. That his relatives were now civil, even at times forcibly pleasant, only made his stay there all the more excruciating. In the last weeks, the world as Harry had known it had been set on its head, and ironically he might have found some measure of comfort in the familiarity of his uncle's threats or Dudley's thick-headed, heavy-fisted bullying.

As Harry lay mulling these thoughts over for the hundredth time, the sun outside had risen high enough to pour through his window, setting ablaze the decorative foil wrapping on one of his neglected presents. Too distracted by its sparkling, Harry finally sat up and toyed with it absently, having no intention of opening it just yet. Looking at it was almost painful, and not because of the glint of the sun in his eyes from the foil. It reminded him all too well of the last present he had received; one he had left unopened until it had been far too late to enjoy. With some effort, Harry somehow resisted the urge to riffle through his dresser draw to retrieve, yet again, the small, rectangular mirror stowed there.

No. Harry wasn't in the mood for presents. But he did force himself to study the array of cards spread side by side before him on the blanket. For a moment, all he could discern of them was the absence of the familiar, untidy handwriting that, for the past two years, he had most looked forward to seeing.

Harry heaved a sigh. It would be inexcusably rude to toss them all away unopened. Besides, they just might contain some clue as to when he could expect to be sprung from this prison of trimmed hedges and grotesquely tasteful wallpaper. He reached for the nearest card, finding it filled with close, neat script and utterly generic content.

_ Dear Harry, _

_ Happy Birthday! It must be wonderful to finally be of age! Just think, you can study Apparation now. _

As he read, Harry could practically hear Hermione's voice, saturated with desperate cheer.

_ Things are well at the moment but hectic. I know you must be dying for news, and I'm sorry, but I can't say more here in case this card gets intercepted. _

With an irritated grimace, Harry wondered why she even still bothered to included that disclaimer. He found it almost impossible to remember the last time he'd received a message that wasn't bare and cryptic. From this, he assumed Hermione was at Grimmauld Place with Ron again this summer. But besides the usual Wish You Were Heres and See You Soons, there was little else of interest in the owl and confetti speckled card. He then pulled up Hermione's gift to him and, indifferently, peeled back it’s dark wrapping to reveal a small box filled with various of Harry's Honeyduke's favourites. He shoved it to the side and reached for the next card.

It opened with an  _ 'Oi Mate!' _ . Ron was not nearly so tight-lipped as Hermione had been, or as falsely cheerful. He complained in much detail about not being able to practice Quidditch while stuck at Grimmauld Place over the summer. He particularly dreaded what Angelina was going to say when she found out.

_ And don't try to make me feel better by telling me you've never gotten to practice over the summer and Oliver never kicked  _ you  _ off the team. You're a Seeker. And a seeker either knows how to catch a snitch or he doesn't. But I'm a Keeper and a fairly lousy one at that. I mean, a Keeper has to have a strategy. _

Ron went on and on about the rigours of his position, as though Harry had never seen Quidditch before. It perturbed him slightly that Ron made so little of his responsibilities as Seeker. After all, who decided the outcome of a match anyway? And who ends the bloody thing? Not the bloody Keeper. After Ron's tirade had ended, however, the rest of the letter wasn't nearly so bad.

Percy, it seemed, had managed to beg his way back into the fold. This might have had less to do with remorse and more to do with the fact that he had been sacked along with his infallible mentor, Cornelius Fudge, and was otherwise homeless. Mrs. Weasley wished him a Happy Birthday and had, despite it being summer and sweltering outside, knitted him another sweater, which Ron informed him accounted for the somewhat lopsided appearance of the parcel he'd sent.

_ I've sent some stuff in there as well, but my real gift is in the envelope with this card. _

Sure enough, Harry found a thin, brightly coloured paper straw that looked amazingly like a Muggle candy called 'Pixie Stix.' He studied it with slight trepidation before returning to Ron's letter. Apparently, this new 'candy' the twins were developing was so sure to be a success that they went on a shopping spree, buying Ron new sets of both school and dress robes. They even were springing for Ginny a brand new broom; because, according to Fred, considering how she's now alternate Seeker to Harry, and considering as well Harry's aptitude for landing himself in the hospital wing, she's very likely to need it.

_ All this spending is starting to worry Mum, but trust me, Fred and George are gonna make a fortune. I got to play guinea pig, as the candy's still in the testing stages, and I don't think it's much more than coloured sugar, to tell the truth. But I'm guessing they fixed it with some sort of cheering charm. And Bloody Hell does it ever cheer you up! I figured you could use some for sure. Be careful though; it's still too strong. Kinda like drinking too much firewhiskey but without the clumsiness and fewer giggles. Now that I think about it, maybe it's best that you didn't try it until you're free of the Muggles. For some reason it gives you the bollocks of a bloody hippogriff, I'm telling you. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened after Fred let me test it, but I'm thinking I just might have propositioned Hermione. I can't think of any other reason why I'd wake up with a sore jaw and her giving me the silent treatment. She still won't tell me what I said, and I keep trying to explain to her that I can't apologise if I'm not sure what I'm apologising for. Not that she'd forgive if I did, probably. Anyway, I keep begging Fred and George to let me try another, but all they ever do is grin at each other (which kind of makes me nervous) and start jabbering about the money they're about to make. Eh. It's alright though. I've found out where they keep it all stashed. Got one in my hand right now, actually. Don't know what I'm going to do when they move back to their flat. It's crazy here, mate, I'm telling you! _

Harry had never known Ron to be so verbose, at least not on paper. He looked down at the 'candy' he still held with renewed apprehension and dropped it into the box with Hermione's chocolates before reaching for another letter. Before he could find one under the mess of wrapping paper and empty envelopes, however, there was a knock on his door, followed by muffled grumbling.

Harry didn't reply and hoped the Dursleys would just give up and go away. But after another sharp knock, the door opened without Harry's permission, revealing one of the most hideous sights to which Harry had ever been privy. As he stared back at the Dursleys, standing crammed inside his bedroom doorway sporting forced smiles, Harry thought vaguely that this was the stuff nightmares were made of. For a while, no one spoke. They all just stared at Harry as the clock in the hallway announced the passing seconds. Finally, his Aunt Petunia cleared her throat pointedly.

"Popkins," she urged Dudley in a sing-song voice. Dudley groaned and stepped toward Harry as though at gunpoint, thrusting out the fancy gift he was holding.

"Hapbirthdy," he grunted and immediately started studying the walls. Harry looked at the package being offered him and was actually impressed. It was covered in a pearly white, obviously expensive wrapping with a ridiculously large, gauzy bow on top. He guessed whatever was inside must really be something, at least to the Dursleys' minds.

"No thanks," he said, looking up at Dudley who appeared quite put out about the fact Harry still hadn't taken the box from him. "Really, you guys didn't have to. You keep it, Duds."

Dudley gawked at him as if he'd grown another head and then turned an almost fearful glance back at his father.

"Listen here, boy!" his uncle said, already red in the face. "We went to all the trouble of not only remembering this accused date but also spending more than you're worth of our hard-earned-"

"Ver-non," Aunt Petunia warned through smiling teeth in her 'not in front of the company' voice.

"But, Petunia dear, he acts as if we're trying to hand him a ruddy bomb. Not that I wouldn't like to," he added under his breath. "I didn't get up and put on my best suit just to watch the ungrateful little whelp snub-"

" _ My! _ " Aunt Petunia spoke over Uncle Vernon, her eyes unnaturally wide. Vernon grunted and fell silent. "It looks as though you've already got quite a lot of presents there," she continued to Harry, so politely he wondered she hadn't hurt herself. "I suppose it's just a bit overwhelming to open them all at once?" she said, trying to smooth things over. But Harry wouldn't play along.

"Actually, no. I don't really want any of these, either." Petunia's smile soured slightly. Harry picked up the box of Honeyduke's sweets and dumped it atop the shiny gift Dudley still held extended. "There you go, Duds. Knock yourself out."

Uncle Vernon made a noise like he'd just swallowed something especially unpleasant at the sight of Dudley digging through the confections, his eyes round as saucers.

"Now, Son, you don't want to ruin your lunch," he said nervously. "Just you hand that here to me until...after."

Grudgingly, Dudley withdrew his fat fingers from the box, but Harry saw him pull something from it where Uncle Vernon couldn't see and slip it into his pocket. Vernon would have had a heart attack, and Harry had the impulse to give Dudley away to him. He might actually have enjoyed the promising glare he'd've gotten from Dudley for ratting the porker out. But more than this, Harry just wanted the Dursleys to leave while everyone still had their heads so he could open the rest of his cards and have that over with. Dudley shuffled over to his father who almost took the boy's hands off snatching the suspicious candies away from him.

"Very well then, Harry. We'll just leave your present on the hall table then, shall we?" Petunia simpered. Harry shrugged and, grumbling, the Dursleys finally shuffled off, pulling Harry's bedroom door closed behind them.

Back to the matter at hand.

Hagrid's card wasn't even a card, only a scrawled, near-illegible note folded in two and wishing him a 'Happee Birthdae.' That and the absence of the usual box of what always seemed to be homemade gravel, otherwise known as treacle fudge (for which Hagrid did apologise), told Harry the Order must be very busy indeed. His dim spirits were beginning to turn dark. There was only one small package left unopened and no card, and there had not been any mention of his imminent release. Harry felt a sulk coming on and was tempted to ignore the rinky-dink parcel and go back to bed. But a disgruntled glance at it revealed there was writing on one side, and so Harry cocked his head to read the slanted, upside-down script.

**To: Harry**

**From: Remus**

Harry's throat tightened. He had never received anything from Professor Lupin himself, only regards included in Sirius' letters to him. And so it was impossible for Harry to think of Lupin without also thinking of his godfather, without remembering that night in the Ministry when Lupin had caught him in his arms as Harry had tried to rush forward and pull Sirius from the arch.

_ He's gone, Harry _

It took a moment for Harry to recover from the memory, but when he had, he went ahead and picked up the small parcel and found, to his surprise, a note had indeed been included. It was adhered to the top so that the box would be impossible to open without first removing it. Harry tried in vain to swallow the ever-growing knot in his throat. He didn't think he could bear to read the same vague, impersonal small talk from this man so intimately linked to him through mutual tragedy. Hesitantly, Harry tore open the flap and removed the strip of paper. His heart gave a trip as he scanned the first line:

_ Harry, do not open my gift to you until you have read this through. First, I want you to grab your wand and anything else small enough to fit into your robe pockets that you feel you cannot live without for at least a few days. I've made arrangements to collect the rest later on. _

There was nothing more. Harry blinked at the note he held and then down at the small, inconspicuous package resting in his lap. In the next moment, Harry had donned his robes, pulling them on so quickly he missed the opening and almost ripped a hole in the sleeve. Stuffing his wand hastily into the inside pocket, he took inventory of his room, accessing each item his eyes fell on in turn as to their importance to his very immediate future. His gaze fell and wistfully lingered on the trunk at the foot of his bed. He wouldn't have an opportunity to use it, but he hated leaving behind his beloved Firebolt, despite that it didn't exactly fit the size criteria. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes from the trunk and practically lunged at Lupin's gift, falling to his knees beside his bed and seizing it with trembling hands. Plain brown twine bound plain brown paper to a plain brown box, and inside was an inanimate novelty snitch. It appeared to be made of plastic and was sloppily painted an unrealistic shade of yellowish orange.

Harry wet his suddenly dry lips and took a shaky breath, flexing the fingers of the hand he held poised over the box. Tentatively, he reached inside. But before his fingers brushed the surface, he jerked his hand back with a curse as though the thing had bitten him.

"Bollocks," he muttered, rising abruptly to his feet. He couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten it. Wrenching open the bottom drawer of his dresser, Harry quickly fished Sirius' mirror from the folds of a pair of badly worn and long-retired boxers. Sunlight glinted off its surface, warming his face for the briefest of moments. He squeezed his fingers around it and let out a sigh of relief before slipping it into the pocket of his jumper. Then, without further hesitation, he strode over to his bed and plucked the snitch gingerly from its container. Instantly, Harry experienced the unpleasant, albeit familiar, the sensation of being dragged forward through space navel first.

After a short eternity, in which Harry felt he would undoubtedly be sick, his feet finally struck solid ground. When he regained his senses, he found himself standing in shadows, staring down a dark and musty hallway. Silence pressed in on him, accompanied by a sense of severe apprehension.

"H-hello?" he called, but his words were devoured by the darkness. Heart pounding, he decided to venture a step forward. But just as he lifted his foot to do so, a hand reached from the darkness to his left and clasped his shoulder. Harry gave a small cry and jerked away from the hand, turning in time to see Professor Lupin step forward into the scant light of a distance lamp. Harry's relief was so great that, for a moment, he had difficulty breathing. Lupin gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," he said, offering a weary but sincere smile. Harry grinned back at him thinking that, now, it just might turn out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art done by Lunulet


	2. Outrageous Fortune

"Thank you, Professor," Harry grinned.

"I think we're past formalities, Harry," Lupin replied with an uncharacteristic terseness. It bordered on exasperation, and Harry felt quite sure it couldn't be attributed to the unusually tired rasp in Lupin's voice. "This isn't Hogwarts, and I'm no longer your professor now, am I? Call me Remus," he finished in a slightly more friendly tone. Harry gave him an uncertain smile and nodded. Lupin regarded him for a moment with an expression Harry couldn't quite decipher before quickly releasing his shoulder and looking away. The action made Harry a bit uncomfortable. To hide this, he looked around him at the dimly lit antechamber, which he found he now recognised.

"We're still here, then," he muttered. Looking about as well, Lupin nodded ruefully. "Wasn't this a bit dangerous?" Harry asked, referring to the toy snitch displayed in his open palm. "I mean, what if Voldemort had intercepted the owl? Might have been a nasty surprise to find him here instead of me."

Remus took the toy from him and studied it as though gathering his thoughts, but Harry could tell the gesture was diversionary, and he was becoming increasingly disquieted by Lupin's reluctance to look at him. He was bothered, too, by the dark shadows he saw beneath the professor's eyes which he felt certain were not caused by the lack of proper illumination in the small anteroom.

"The plan had its risks," Lupin conceded with a small sigh. "But we felt this was safer than transporting you here by broom again. Besides, to anyone other than yourself, this would just have seemed a worthless plastic bauble, given by a very poor--or very cheap--friend." Lupin's shadow of a smile appeared to Harry more like a grimace. "It was keyed to you, designed to activate at your touch and yours alone. A very tricky bit of magic, but Dumbledore does have a knack for these sorts of things."

"Dumbledore?" Harry asked, "Is he here?"

"Of course, he is," Lupin replied, returning the snitch to him. "He's waiting for us in the kitchen. Come along, Harry," he said, rather too solemnly for Harry's liking. "There are many things we need to discuss." He gave Harry's shoulder a hesitant pat and, for the first time since Harry had arrived, dared a brief moment of eye contact before turning abruptly to lead the way. Harry was unsure what to make of Lupin's behaviour and appearance. The professor had always seemed far more weathered and world-weary than was proportionate to a man of his age. But this advanced maturity had always been accompanied by an air of resignation, a subtle but unshakable optimism. Though now, Harry sensed a definite despondence and, as he followed him, he noticed Lupin's posture was more bowed than usual, as though he bore a weight more oppressive than merely his lycanthropy.

As they wound their way through it, Harry found Grimmauld Place to be just as dour as he remembered it. The silence, broken only by the tick of Lupin's boot heel on the hardwood, was almost suffocating despite the sharp chill in the musty air. Harry wondered vaguely where Ron and Hermione must be hiding and if they were even aware of his arrival. From the tone of their cards, Harry guessed they had not been let in on Lupin and the Headmaster's plan.

The old house was not, however, completely unchanged. Most apparent was the absence of the long row of stuffed heads of house elves that had once lined the hall. Small oval-shaped patches of immaculate wallpaper shown where they had once hung, preserving it as the walls had stained and darkened around them. The ovals stretched on like a stenciled pattern down the length of the hall, fading in and out of the shadows between each generously distanced, low burning sconce.

Though Harry studied his surroundings with mild curiosity, he noticed the professor drifted through them with blatant and conditioned indifference, as though he were a ghost haunting this place and not a corporeal resident. Harry tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to return to this house after that fateful night at the Ministry, knowing that this dreary leviathan had been where Sirius had been forced to spend the last months of his life, miserable and restless. Harry knew that Lupin had been at Sirius' side for much of that time. Perhaps, he had been the only thing that had made his godfather's tenure here bearable. And now Lupin was locked here himself, with little more than those memories and the brief presence of scurrying, preoccupied members of the Order to keep him company. That and, at the moment, school children likely too concerned with each other to provide much in the way of companionship.

Harry's apathy gave way to an almost crushing compassion, and he resolved to devote as much of his time to Lupin's company as he could or that his former teacher would allow. He looked about him at the bleak expanse of locked doorways, draped windows, and grim hallways and shuddered, amazed that the man had tolerated it all for this long. For that matter, Harry now wondered how he was going to bear it, and for a moment, he almost longed to be back in his bedroom at Privet Drive. It may have been lonely there, but at least there had been sunlight through the window and no constant reminders of his recent loss.

Harry was struck by a sudden dread. He was in Black Manor. But there was no Black. Not any longer. The realisation was disconcerting, and as they rounded the corner by the foot of the stairs, he actually reeled and almost stumbled.

Harry took a deep breath. He needed to get a hold of himself. After all, it was only a house. And Remus was here, and Mrs. Weasley. And Ron and Ginny and Hermione, as well.

Harry looked down at the floor directly in front of him to steady his step and noticed his hands were shaking badly. He also realised he still held the snitch but in a dangerously loose grip. Harry made to stuff the toy into his robes, but his suddenly clumsy fingers caught on the edge of his pocket and knocked the snitch from his hand. He snatched at it but only succeeded in batting it away from him with added force. It fell to the floor with a startlingly loud, hollow clatter that was exaggerated by the resonate surroundings. Ahead of him, Professor Lupin started and spun toward the sudden commotion. He watched as Harry scrambled frantically after the still bouncing snitch, snatched it to him before freezing in place on his hands and knees in terrified anticipation.

But nothing happened. The silence stretched on between them as they stared at each other in equal but separate confusion.

"She didn't scream," Harry said finally, completely awestruck.

Lupin relaxed. "Ah," he said slowly, realising the inspiration behind Harry's odd behaviour. Then he smirked (something Harry had never seen him do and didn't think suited him at all) and lazily gestured toward the wall beside him. Harry inched forward and craned to see around the banister, and his mouth fell open.

The space where Mrs. Black's portrait had once hung was now bare. But instead of the pristine wallpaper that denoted the former position of the now absent house elves, the paper there was curled back in a large, charred circle. Smoke and scorch marks rose from it all the way to the impossibly high ceiling. Lupin stared at the spot with lax but open contempt.

"Don't fret about making a bit of noise, Harry," he said with a wry expression. "She'll not be bothering us ever again." The words had been so low Harry had barely heard them, and judging from Lupin's expression Harry thought it best not to ask questions. Without offering to help him to his feet, Lupin turned and continued toward the kitchen. So Harry pulled himself from the floor, casting an uneasy glance at the retreating back of his friend and then another over his shoulder at the scarred, Mrs. Black-free wall as he passed.

Stepping into the kitchen was like stepping into an entirely different world. The cold, musty air was here replaced with the warm and enticing aroma of Mrs. Weasley's excellent cooking. His mouth already watering, Harry looked over to see a large pot of what appeared to be stew simmering over a low fire that cast a cosy glow over the entire room. There was nothing here that wasn't inviting. Baskets of various, colourful vegetables and other items sat snugly on the countertops between mixing bowls and cooking utensils and recently emptied cups and bowls. Everything in the room seemed either fresh or well used, as opposed to the rest of the house which was simply old and worn. Standing at the far end of the long dining table, Professor Lupin waited, and sitting to his right was Dumbledore. When the Headmaster caught Harry's eye, he rose and beckoned him further inside with a welcoming smile.

"I see you have arrived safely," he said, pointing Harry to a seat directly across from him. "Very good."

He slid into the proffered spot as Lupin took a seat at the head of the table. Harry, who hadn't realised just how hungry he was until that moment, glanced hopefully to the bubbling stew and then back at his two hosts, but it seemed refreshments would not be included with this meeting.

"You are welcome to whatever you may find...afterward," Dumbledore assured him. "Molly has even been so kind as to leave the stew on for you. Right now, however, I feel we need your full attention."

Harry's stomach growled loudly. "I'm sorry, Professor, but that may be impossible with Mrs. Weasley's cooking so close by," Harry said honestly. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. At least  _ he _ had no problems looking Harry in the eyes now, which settled Harry's nerves considerably.

"Indeed," he chuckled, steepling his fingers delightedly on the table before him. "But there are a few things we must get out of the way before we feast." With some difficulty, Harry ignored his stomach and settled himself in for what promised to be a weighty, if not lengthy, conversation. But true to form, Dumbledore did not come immediately to the point.

"How have you been Harry?" he asked quietly.

Harry swallowed and cleared his throat, but his voice suddenly eluded him, so he merely nodded slowly. "As well as can be expected, I guess," he was finally able to croak. Dumbledore nodded his sad understanding.

"Harry, has anything odd happened lately?" he asked now, very seriously. "Anything at all you wish to share with us?" Harry looked nervously between the two professors, but of the many times Dumbledore had asked him this question, or something very like to it, Harry for once had nothing to hide.

"You mean besides that the Dursley's are acting like human beings?" Harry asked, earning him a smile from the Headmaster. "Nothing I can think of," Harry shrugged. Dumbledore was visibly relieved.

"Alright," he said. "Now, since I believe Remus here has some other business to attend to, I think firstly we should discuss the matter of Sirius' will and your inheritance."

Harry was taken aback, not only because this was the first time he'd heard his godfather's name spoken aloud since he'd left Hogwarts, but also because it never occurred to him that Sirius might have written a will. It certainly didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd concern himself with. Though, now that Harry thought about it, it made perfect sense and was likely standard for all members of the Order. He wondered vaguely if he should write one himself.

"As I'm sure you know, Sirius was the last remaining member of the Black family to bear that name. However, because of his long imprisonment, much of the Black fortune has either been seized by the Ministry or redistributed among his many relatives." Harry seethed at the mention of Sirius' time in Azkaban, but even more so at the thought of Draco Malfoy enjoying Sirius' rightful inheritance. As though the Malfoys simply weren't wealthy enough already. "As a result," Dumbledore continued, "Sirius' holdings were few. Among them, however, is Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, which was likely overlooked, or ignored, due to its apparent abandonment."

"I've inherited Order headquarters?" Harry blinked.

"Well, not exactly," Dumbledore corrected. "For so long as the Order has need of it, or until you leave Hogwarts, whichever comes last, the deed will be held by Remus here. Which brings me to the next matter, the matter of your guardianship." Stunned, Harry looked over at Lupin, having a excellent idea what the Headmaster was going to say next. But Lupin was looking at Dumbledore, who then began to speak again.

"Granted, you are, as of today in fact, sixteen and at the age of consent by Wizarding standards...Which reminds me, I have not yet wished you a happy birthday. Yes, Happy Birthday, Harry," he said, twinkling again. Harry thanked him quickly, eager for him to go on. "Oh, yes. However, while you still attend school, any question or decision that might arise concerning your well-being shall now be directed to Remus, as necessity dictates."

Finally, Lupin met Harry's eye. "Sirius asked me long ago if I might take over his responsibilities as your godfather should anything ever happen to him," he informed Harry. "To which I readily agreed."

Harry felt a new surge of affection for his former professor and gave him a broad, grateful smile. One he was relieved to see was mirrored on Remus' face, as well. "Brilliant," he said in response to the pronouncement. No other word could describe it.

"Thank you for trusting me, Harry," Remus said, and Harry realised he did trust this man, completely, and was relieved that his 'well-being' did not now rest in the hands of another, even Dumbledore's. After Sirius, there was no one else Harry could think of he'd rather call godfather.

With that, Remus excused himself. Either he really did have somewhere else he needed to be, or whatever was left to be said was strictly between Harry and the Headmaster. Odds were, Harry figured, it was the latter. Dumbledore waited until the door swung to a close behind Remus before turning back to a still grinning Harry.

"Now then, on to the next order of business," he said, a bit more solemnly. "Though I understand that at the time you felt it a necessity--and I can't say I quite disagree--I must insist that 'My Army' be disbanded." Harry was crestfallen. He'd really grown to enjoy DA meetings, especially since Neville had begun to show promise. He felt he quite had a knack for teaching, as well. Though, in all honesty, Harry wasn't sure he had the heart to continue DA anyway, especially since that near-disastrous night in the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore's words mirrored Harry's thoughts. "It was indeed a grand effort, and your intentions were admirable, but I'm afraid too many lives, including your own Harry, were needlessly endangered as a result. However, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher will ensure outside study will be quite unnecessary. Well, for most others."

"You've found a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Harry asked, very interested.

"Of course. And while I admit, judging from my past appointments, you might be a bit wary of her; I assure you that I have taken special care in my decision this year."

"Her? Who is she? And why is she such a wonderful choice?" Harry asked, not meaning to sound so critical but unable to restrain himself. Dumbledore only smiled.

"You will be meeting her shortly." Harry felt he should have known better than to expect a straightforward response. "While Ms. Cobbleshot will indeed prepare your classmates," Dumbledore went on as though he had not been questioned. "Considering your exceptional circumstances, Harry, you will be undergoing additional training this year." Harry had, of course, expected this. He waited for the Headmaster to elaborate, but the wizened old man simply looked at him sadly and thoughtfully for a moment.

"I realise, Harry," he finally began, "that in the past I have played far too distant a role in your life." Harry nodded acceptingly, as though to absolve the Headmaster. "No, no. It is inexcusable, Harry," Dumbledore gently insisted. "I had reasoned that should the occasion arise, as it has far too often, that you should encounter Voldemort, he would go to great lengths to ensure it was under circumstances which made it quite impossible for me to come to your aid. I felt you needed to learn to rely on your own resources as the situation required. And I must say, you have never disappointed me in that respect." He smiled proudly down at Harry. "Though, in retrospect, I realise it has led you to be far too independent, to feel you had no choice but to take matters into your own hands. As I understand it, there have been several instances when you should have but perhaps felt you could not confide in me. And for that, I am truly sorry, Harry."

Dumbledore was the one apologising, so why did Harry feel suddenly guilty? He looked sheepishly down at the table in front of him.

"I want you to know, Harry," Dumbledore said now, drawing Harry's attention once again, "that you should feel free to be completely honest and open with me at all times, without fear of reprisal. It is imperative that you do so. The threat we now face overshadows propriety and school rules. And there is nothing you could do or say to endanger my faith in you. For my own sake, I must know that you fully understand and appreciate that."

Harry nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir. Of course."

Dumbledore sighed with relief and smiled his appreciation down at Harry. "Very good," he said to himself. "Now, let us discuss the real reason we are here," he began again, all seriousness. "I'm sure I have no need to tell you that, now that Voldemort's return has been publicly confirmed, he will pursue his schemes with ruthless urgency. Many of his key followers now reside in Azkaban, but I have no doubt he will manage to free them again soon enough. This has, however, thankfully delayed him. Though, his first and primary endeavour will undoubtedly be your murder."

Harry gulped and squirmed slightly. This was not news, of course, but it really had never been discussed with him so frankly.

"While you have shown extraordinary resourcefulness in the past, you are presently no match for Voldemort now that he has regained his former strength. He well knows your potential..."

Funny. Harry wasn't sure he did himself, nor did he entirely trust everyone else's faith in him.

"...and will be anxious to strike before you can be taught to use that potential against him. We can waste no time, Harry. You will begin training immediately. And with the pressure of O.W.L.s behind you, it should be no problem for you to continue your regimen after the term begins."

Harry nodded his understanding, but the weight of the conversation was beginning to suffocate him. Lamely, he sought to lighten the tone. "You know," he said, raising an eyebrow in mock earnestness. "Angelina may be fit to be tied if my lessons cut too much into her Quidditch practices. I'll have no choice but to tell her to let loose her wrath on you."

Dumbledore smiled a bit but wasn't easily swayed from his previous mood. "Ah, I do not think that will be a problem," he told Harry. "As all Quidditch matches have been cancelled."

"You're cancelling Quidditch?" Harry gaped, utterly crestfallen. It was one of the few things that made his stressful existence tolerable, and he'd been denied it for far too long already, as far as he was concerned. Well, at least he could still make a few laps around the pitch when things got too bad.

"In light of present circumstances," Dumbledore explained. "This coming year, I'm afraid all students will be confined to the castle and inner courtyards."

There went the last of Harry's hopes. "No trips to Hogsmeade," Harry grumbled dejectedly. It wasn't even a question. Dumbledore slowly shook his head. Harry now cursed himself for giving away all his Honeyduke's goodies. "You realise, with my luck, I'm likely to be held personally responsible for all of this," Harry said, dreading having to meet his disgruntled classmates.

"I'm afraid it cannot be helped," Dumbledore said with no hint of apology. Harry resigned himself to a Quidditch-less castle-arrest and bade Dumbledore continue with a baleful but acquiescent nod. The headmaster accepted the invitation without hesitation.

"Beginning tomorrow you will have regular lessons with a variety of instructors on a range of subjects," he said, getting right down to business. "Seeing as Voldemort is likely to hold some sway over many of the more dangerous or mistreated races and part-humans, Remus has volunteered to instruct you on how to identify and protect yourself from various attacks of that nature. In that same token, Hagrid will familiarise you with some of the more dangerous magical creatures." He paused for Harry to nod his understanding. "Professor McGonagall will be giving you extra lessons in Transfiguration, as it can be a most useful skill when attacked by things other than spells. Also, Professor Flitwick will be teaching you some very useful charms. You will, of course, be receiving additional attention from Professor Cobbleshot, as well. Unfortunately, you will be unable to meet with her until term begins."

Harry was beginning to feel overwhelmed, and he could tell Dumbledore wasn't finished yet. As he was attempting to come to terms with the prospect of his every waking moment being occupied by survival training, he thought he heard a soft rustling, as of well-starched fabric, and very subtly the air in the room somehow...changed. Harry pulled himself from his misery long enough to look over and find Professor Snape standing stock still in the doorway of the kitchen, looking very much like a deer caught in headlights. It seemed he did not expect to find Harry there as he was glaring at him (it seemed to Harry) as if greatly disappointed by the discovery. When their eyes met, Harry involuntarily bristled and Snape's eyes narrowed by a barely discernible degree; a subtle gesture which, on that sallow, pointed face, somehow always spoke volumes.

"Snape," Harry muttered under his breath.

" _ Professor _ Snape," Dumbledore reminded him quietly but firmly before turning to the intruder. "Severus, what excellent timing. Come in and have a seat." Without otherwise moving, Snape shifted his gaze to the Headmaster and raised an eyebrow. Apparently unaffected by the flat-out refusal of his invitation, Dumbledore elaborated. "I was just about to inform Harry that he is to resume his Occlumency lessons with you tomorrow."

" _ What? _ " Harry said, completely aghast. "I thought  _ you  _ would be teaching me Occlumency. What was all that talk about playing too distant a role?" he demanded, forgetting all sense of seemly behaviour.

"Harry," Dumbledore said patiently, "this is exactly what I had been working toward telling you. Though I  _ have _ been far too distant, and though I hope to become much more involved with your affairs, as always, I have your best interest in mind. And in this matter, we think it best that you continue to study Occlumency with Professor Snape."

"We?" Harry looked incredulously from the Headmaster to the Potions Master. Snape, it appeared, had been well aware of the arrangement though had not intended to be present for the announcement of it. Still, the sneer that had developed on Snape's face as Harry and Dumbledore had argued morphed into an amused smirk before Harry's eyes. No doubt the slimy git was enjoying Harry's present distress. It suddenly angered Harry beyond words that Snape had been allowed to witness it at all, and he drew himself up, determined not to give him any further satisfaction. But Harry's change in demeanour only served to amuse Snape even more. Harry was absolutely fuming.

"I can't see how this is in my best interest," he blurted, looking pointedly at Snape. "What if he just decides to abandon me again?"

Snape's cool façade crumbled, and his entire body seemed to contract as if it was taking every ounce of willpower he had to keep from strangling Harry then and there. It was Harry's turn to pull a satisfied smirk.

"Do you  _ see _ what I endure, Albus?" Snape hissed as he and Harry glared daggers at each other. Dumbledore quickly intervened.

"Professor Snape and I have discussed the events of last term," he said, trying unsuccessfully to draw Harry's attention away from Snape. "What happened was indeed unfortunate, but he has been gracious enough to overlook it and is willing to continue your lessons together on the condition that you apply yourself to his teaching."

Harry gaped disbelievingly at the Headmaster. He was beside himself. "Gracious enough to-...apply myself-...But it was  _ him _ that threw  _ me _ out!" he finally managed to sputter.

"I'm afraid I cannot be swayed in this, Harry," Dumbledore said with an air of finality. Harry was undeterred.

"But why can't you teach me? Or anyone else?" Harry begged.

"Harry, there  _ is _ no one else. Even if I had the time to devote to your daily teaching, I still do not believe my tutelage would be as conducive-"

"But he hates me!" Harry interrupted.

"Exactly, Potter," Snape intoned. Harry shuddered and turned to glower at him.

" _ Mister _ Potter," Dumbledore gently corrected. Snape curled his lip and continued.

"Whoever might attempt to use Legilimency against you,  _ Mister _ Potter, will very likely not like you. The attack will be neither gentle nor pleasant. It will be a sudden and savage rape of your subconscious in search of your most painful memories, or anything else that might make an effective weapon against you. Albus, we feel, does not have the heart, nor the ability, to train you properly."

"Oh. So he isn't a cruel and sadistic bastard and you are?" Harry said. Snape only raised his eyebrow and gave him what might almost be construed as a smile.

"I would not have put it in quite that way," Dumbledore said, not at all pleased. "But that is the gist of the matter." Harry looked from one to the other, finally crossing his arms and heaving an exasperated, though defeated, sigh.

"I think I have had quite enough of this discussion, Headmaster," said Snape. Harry refused to look at him again. "At your convenience, however, I do need a word with you." Dumbledore nodded and waved his consent. In a flurry of billowing fabric, Snape was gone. Harry openly pouted, staring holes in the table before him rather than meet the Headmaster's eye. Dumbledore regarded him for a while before speaking.

"I need your implicit trust, Harry," he said candidly. "Though I realise I have done little in the past to deserve it." Harry lifted his eyes sheepishly. Of course, he trusted the Headmaster. It was only that nightly sessions with Snape were such a depressing prospect. "The times are dire, and you must be ready, Harry, must be willing to endure whatever is required to become so." Harry uncrossed his arms and nodded, unable and unwilling to find his voice. "It may have little effect on your feelings toward him," Dumbledore continued, more gently, "however, I'd like you to know that I have immense trust in and respect for Professor Snape. I cannot force you to do the same, but I must ask that you behave toward him as though you do," he finished, looking over the top of his glasses at Harry.

"Of course, Professor," Harry said weakly. "I'll listen to him. I promise."

Dumbledore smiled at him and nodded, satisfied. "Well, I do believe that is all. You won't begin until tomorrow. Might I suggest you go get settled in, relax, enjoy your birthday?" His twinkle had returned. "I don't want to ruin anything, but I hear tell Molly has a bit of something planned for this evening. Which reminds me," he said, rising and taking up two soup bowls. "Shall we feast?"

Harry shook his head. "Um, no thank you, Sir. I'm not all that hungry anymore."

"Are you certain? I really shouldn't, but I think I'll stay and have another bowl. Molly uses extra lima beans, you know." He chuckled. "It's as if she knows all my weaknesses."

Harry excused himself, waiting until he had passed through the door to turn back and glance at the old wizard so happily munching Mrs. Weasley's stew. "Lima beans," Harry muttered to himself. Then, shaking his head, he made his way up the stairs to his room.


	3. What a Noble Mind is Here Overthrown

Harry climbed the stairs to the room he had shared with Ron the previous summer, though, he fancied someone had added a few more steps to the flight since then. When he finally reached it, he found the door to the room was ajar, and so he pushed it open without knocking. Ron and Hermione were both there, seated very close together on Ron's bed, casting doe-eyed looks at one another. Not meaning to interrupt, Harry waited to be noticed but was soon thoroughly nauseated and tactfully cleared his throat. When Hermione saw him in the doorway, she gasped, and both of them pulled the hands that lay between them very quickly into their laps. Not surprised in the least, but highly amused by their reaction, Harry gave them a quirky smile.

"Well, don't all rush to greet me at once or anything," he teased. Hermione was the first to recover from the shock of his sudden appearance, and she vaulted from the bed toward him.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, flinging herself into a hug that took Harry's breath. Ron, who didn't appear to approve of Hermione's enthusiasm, rose as well, delivering a friendly clap to Harry's back.

"We thought we heard something downstairs earlier," he said, grinning. "But we just figured it was Tonks reporting in." Harry chuckled at that, confessing his earlier clumsiness. Meanwhile, Hermione had recovered her sense of propriety and taken a few steps back. Still, she eyed Harry with a curious expression.

"What?" asked Harry, thinking from the look she was giving him that he might have had a bogie or something and swiped at his nose.

"Harry, you look...different," she said wonderingly. Harry's brow furrowed. He and Ron both looked down the length of his person, and then at each other. When Ron shrugged, they both turned and looked inquiringly at Hermione.

"Different? How?"

"I'm not sure. You just look... _ good _ ," she finished, slightly breathless. Harry blushed crimson. Ron toed the floor, tossing grudging looks up at Hermione who, after an uncomfortable silence, shook her head as if to regain her senses and cleared her throat. "So. How've you been?" she asked quickly with a forced smile, trying to gloss over the awkward moment. Harry shrugged morosely, and she nodded.

"Well, what are we all just standing around for?" Ron said over-loudly. Taking their cue, the three shuffled over to the beds to have a seat. But when Hermione chose Harry's instead of Ron's, Ron rushed past him looking very put out, and planted himself beside her, leaving no room for Harry himself. Ron then gave Hermione a critical look, and she bit her lip contritely. Harry waited for whatever was passing between them to run its course, and when he deemed the coast was clear he plopped down across from them on Ron's bed. As if a spell had been lifted, everyone seemed to cheer considerably, expressing how nice it was to be together again.

"Say!" Ron ventured, wasting no time after all the standard niceties had been exchanged. "Did you get a chance to try your birthday present?" Harry frowned and shook his head. "You don't happen to have it on you, do you?!" Ron asked, practically on the edge of his seat.

"Oh. No. Sorry, I left it behind," Harry explained apologetically. "I kind of left in a hurry." Ron was heart-broken but appeared to understand.

"Fred and George caught me at it," he said dejectedly. "I haven't had a straw in over  _ two _ days." He groaned. Hermione, suddenly realising what it was he was on about, rolled her eyes and heaved a very exasperated 'Oh, not  _ that _ again.' But Ron just smirked and waved his hand dismissively, leaning in toward Harry as though she was no longer allowed to share in the conversation.

"It's a real shame you didn't get to try it, mate. I told Fred and George we'd be more than happy to help them test it again, though they didn't seem too keen on the idea. I guess you'll just have to wait until it hits the market."

"Ron, really!" Hermione scolded, refusing to be shut out. "If we're lucky, it never  _ will _ hit the 'market'. And you shouldn't be encouraging them!" she added, crossing her arms. "I  _ ought _ to tell your mother."

"You don't dare!" said Ron, sounding thoroughly scandalised.

"Oh, don't I? It's for their own good" she said defiantly. "They're going to land themselves in Azkaban with this nonsense." Harry followed the exchange with mounting intrigue. Obviously, the two of them had been round and round about this before.

"What's up?" he asked. It was Ron's turn to roll his eyes.

"Hermione thinks," he began in a way which said very clearly that whatever she thought he considered to be completely ludicrous, "that Fred and George are making cock _. _ "

"Coke!" Hermione corrected, blushing furiously. " _ Cocaine _ ."

"Whatever, some Muggle drug, and mixing it with sugar." He laughed. "Isn't that a lark?"

"Er...well, actually, Ron..." Harry said with an apologetic look. From what'd he'd gathered about the mysterious stuff, it sounded reasonable, and it certainly wouldn't surprise him.

"See!" Hermione needled.

"Oh, not you, too!" Ron heaved an exasperated sigh. "You two just can't accept that this is going to be the Weasleys' big break."

"Big break right into Azkaban," Hermione snapped. Harry was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He was definitely staying out of this one.

"Well,  _ I _ think they're brilliant," Ron said matter-of-factly, "and they don't  _ need _ a Muggle drug to make money. So there."

"I happen to agree, but  _ apparently _ , someone needs to tell  _ them _ that!"

Ron and Hermione glared at each other. Harry decided it was time for a change of subject.

"So," he said loudly and got completely ignored. "What's the story with the portrait downstairs? Or rather, the missing portrait downstairs."

You'd have thought he'd just suggested sitting down and having a nice, quiet tea with the Lord Voldemort. They gave off glaring at one another and turned anxiously toward him. Ron quite looked as though someone had died.

" _ What? _ " Harry asked. Hermione glanced nervously at Ron as if hoping he had an answer. When none came, she took a deep breath and seemed to be trying to decide where to start.

"Professor Lupin hasn't quite been himself lately," she began in a measured voice. Harry didn't exactly need to be told this; it was all too apparent. Though, obviously, there was much more to it than he had thought.

"Yeah," Ron added hesitantly. "He didn't take it too well when...well, after that night... _ you know _ ."

Indeed, Harry did, and he could empathise. "So?" he asked when they didn't volunteer more.

"He's been kind of a loose canon," Ron said but stopped again. Hermione sighed and decided it best to take it from the beginning.

"They'd been fixing up the house, cleaning out closets and wardrobes, taking things off the wall. Except for the tapestry in the parlour and the painting in this room," she said, gesturing to Phineas' empty frame, "they'd managed to get everything else down."

"But Mrs. Black was being stubborn," Ron said, suddenly deciding to be helpful. "Wouldn't come down for nothing, and throwing a bloody fit whenever they tried. But when Hermione got here, she dug up this really great removal charm from the library."

At the mention of the library, Hermione became instantly excited. "Oh, yes! The library here is fascinating, Harry. Have you seen it? There are just dozens of rare and one of a kind books, all of them very old. Mostly they're on the Dark Arts, but several are on lesser-known charms and even potions!" She was nearly breathless at the mention.

"Hermione practically lives there," Ron said, rolling his eyes in feigned exasperation and giving her a playful smile. "Even though we aren't really  _ supposed _ to go in."

"No one said we were forbidden," Hermione interjected, highly offended by the insinuation that she was openly disregarding the rules.

"Lupin and Dumbledore frown on it 'cause of all the Dark stuff in there," Ron explained. "But you know Hermione. Keeping her away from a library is about as easy as prying butterbeer away from a disgraced house elf," he finished with a wink to her. Hermione clearly didn't approve of the analogy, but her glower was insincere. Their blatant flirting was beginning to make Harry squeamish. "She's found loads of great books on hexes and curses and jinxes," Ron continued.

"Mostly on how to  _ counter _ them," she added as a disclaimer.

"They'll be great for when we start back with DA," Ron finished.

Harry shook his head at him. "There's no DA anymore. Dumbledore made me promise we wouldn't meet again."

Ron looked almost insulted. "Wot?"

Harry shrugged. "He said he's found a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher that knows their stuff."

"Well," Ron said sulkily, "he's said that before. And Hermione's already snuck them out. Couldn't hurt anything if the three of us had a look at them."

"I agree," said Harry, "and this is all really fascinating and everything, but you're avoiding my question. What happened to Mrs. Black?"

Knowing they'd been caught, Ron and Hermione dropped the pretence and finally attempted to just come out with it, blurting the story in turns so that Harry almost became dizzy. "Professor Lupin tried to use the charm I'd found," Hermione started out, "but it didn't work."

"Sure made the old bat angry, though. She started calling Lupin all sorts of dirty names. I thought he was taking it all pretty well, actually. Prolly used to it by now. But then..." Ron couldn't bring himself to continue and glanced at Hermione who took the baton, though looked very uncomfortable about it.

"She...Well, she started to say some very mean things about...about  _ Sirius _ ." She whispered his name much like she had once whispered Voldemort's, which irritated Harry.

"Lupin just kind of snapped," Ron informed him sort of dreamily as if lost in the memory of it. "He set her on fire. Just like that, as if he's just been waiting for an excuse or something. Didn't say a word, either, just stood there and watched her scream and burn with this blank expression on his face." Harry sat heavily back on the bed, and his concern for his newly appointed guardian returned with renewed force. Hermione sat looking thoughtfully at the floorboards. "Almost burned the whole place down," Ron continued. "Well, at least it took care of the problem, I guess," he said with a short, half-hearted laugh. "Of course, no one said a word to him about it. We've just been giving him a lot of space, especially after the Kreacher Incident." He slowly shook his head. Harry waited in vain for a further explanation.

"Well?" he asked peevishly. "Are you going to explain 'The Kreacher Incident' or not?"

Ron woke from his thoughts and looked at him, mouth agape. "You don't know what happened to Kreacher!" he said. It wasn't a question, thus confirming Ron's claim to the title of Master of the Obvious. How the hell was Harry supposed to know any of this? Hermione looked even more disquieted than before. Her eyes misted over and when she spoke her voice quavered.

"Professor Lupin's been a bit..."

"Sociopathic?" Ron offered. "Homicidal?" Clearly, he wasn't as adversely affected by the 'Kreacher Incident' as she was.

"Ron!" she snapped, completely horrified. "The Professor has been under a great deal of stress lately," she insisted vehemently to Harry, though it sounded as if the attempted justification was for her own sake rather than his. Hermione then fell silent, battling tears, and Ron looked at her imploringly, as if asking for permission to elaborate. Harry was on tenterhooks. Finally, out of utter frustration, he slammed his fists down on his knees and shouted at them.

"You two are infuriating; you know that? Will someone  _ please _ just spit it out? Why is it no one can ever just give me a straight answer?"

Hermione's long threatening tears finally fell unfettered. "I suppose you might as well go ahead and tell him," she bawled at Ron. "After all, he'll probably be just as happy about this atrocity as you are. You're heartless! You know that? Both of you!" And with that, she stood huffily and rushed from the room. Harry watched her go, not just a little upset by the condemnation. After all, he didn't even know what in hell they were talking about and didn't feel he quite deserved to be called names for his presumed reaction to the news he hadn't even heard yet. That Ron didn't follow her to try and comfort her--indeed, that he seemed wholly unaffected by the display--told Harry this must have been an all too frequent occurrence. Once her sobs faded from earshot, Harry and Ron leaned in toward each other conspiratorially. Ron didn't need to be prompted.

"So what happened was, since... _ Sirius..." _ (Gods, this whispering thing was going to seriously start getting on Harry's nerves) "...was the last Black, Kreacher wasn't bound to the house anymore. Little sodder musta known he was in for it, 'cause he disappeared that night. Prolly ran to the Malfoys," he added with a disgusted sneer. "But Lupin tracked him down. Supposedly, it was the first thing he did when he got back. He searched the house, and when he couldn't find him anywhere, he walked right straight back out the door to go look for him."

Harry drank in Ron's narrative and scooted to the edge of the mattress, eager to hear what he was sure to be news of Kreacher's gruesome and most horrible death. Gods how he would have liked to have been the one to have given it to him.

"He was gone for days," Ron went on. "They said when he came back he looked like Death. He wasn't around to take his potion, see, so he'd had a full-blown transformation. And just running 'round the countryside, can you believe it? I'm surprised Dumbledore just let that slide. Anyway. He walked in after like a week, and he had Kreacher's  _ head _ , or what was left of it, tucked under his arm," Ron gushed, confirming Harry's assumption. "It's mounted on the wall of his room," Ron said this as though very impressed by it.

Harry sat back with a gratified smile spreading across his face. He could certainly understand now why Hermione had been so upset. And she had been right, he was tickled pink about the 'atrocity' and so forgave her presumptuousness. Ron nodded at Harry, his eyebrows raised, apparently very pleased with the effect his story had had. But as happy as Harry was to learn of the little cretin's untimely demise, he was disturbed by the fact that his usually quiet and reserved mentor had been driven to such a violent extreme.

As if reading his thoughts, Ron spoke mournfully, "Lupin's been a bit distant since that. He locked himself in with Buckbeak for days. Wouldn't talk to anybody."

At the mention of Buckbeak Harry sat a little straighter. "How is Buckbeak, by the way? Do you think he'd mind if we went up to visit him?"

Ron, who wasn't nearly so well acquainted with the animal, shrugged animatedly. "If you could get there. But you'd be hard put to find him."

"Huh?" Harry asked, completely bewildered.

"Lupin's set him free," Ron said, once again as if this was something that Harry ought to have known. Harry was beginning to wonder how long his patience was going to hold. "Since the danger of Buckbeak getting killed by the Ministry has passed, really, Lupin sent him back to the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid. And boy was  _ he _ thrilled." Harry could just see the gruff looking half-giant with a goofy smile, his small beetle-black eyes all a-twinkle with unshed tears at finally being able to take his old friend back home. Ron shrugged. "Lupin said Sirius would have wanted it that way," he said quietly. "He said he wished he could have done the same for Sirius...y'know, given him freedom...while he was still alive."

After that comment, neither of the boys felt much like talking anymore.


	4. Flashes of Merriment

Mrs. Weasley did indeed have something planned for that evening; much more than just a 'bit,' if their scant lunches were any indication. She limited them to one sandwich apiece, and Harry almost choked on his twice as Mrs. Weasley seemed inclined to deliver spontaneous, rib-cracking hugs without warning whenever she passed within three feet of him as she bustled around making preparations. By their sympathetic though wary expressions, Harry had the feeling both Ron and Hermione had been through a similar ordeal upon their respective arrivals.

When she wasn't testing the integrity of Harry's ribcage, Mrs. Weasley chatted compulsively, coming near to tears several times for--as far as Harry could tell--no apparent reason at all. The three bolted down their sandwiches and were not disappointed in the least when she shooed them from the kitchen, informing them it was off limits until she came to fetch them later that evening.

The afternoon passed lazily. Ginny popped up now and again though generally made herself scarce. Harry got the distinct impression this had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Ron and Hermione. When she did surface, she was brief, and before leaving she would fix them with a knowing look, smiling teasingly at her brother (which never failed to make him blush) and throwing Hermione an encouraging nod.

"She stays in her room all day," Ron informed him sulkily, "writing to boys. Gone absolutely nutters about them. She won't tell me their names, but when I find out..." Ron looked positively murderous.

"She's not a little girl anymore, Ron," Hermione chastised. "You can't keep her from them forever."

"Can't I? I know how boys are. Only after one thing, and they aren't getting it from my little sister. Not if I can help it."

"Only after one thing are you?" Hermione asked, eyebrows raised. "Then perhaps I should leave you two to plot the desecration of young girls' innocence and go help Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen."

"Well, not all boys," Ron whined. Which translated to: 'Well, not me.'

"But most of us, y'know," Harry said teasingly, watching Ron and winking at Hermione. "It's a pretty dangerous game, Hermione. Maybe you should think about playing for the other team," he suggested. Ron threw him a 'whose side are you on?' look.

Hermione scoffed and shook her head but then looked thoughtful and said, "Not that there's anything wrong with it, mind you." She then expressed, at length, her advocation of gay rights and her admiration of the courage possessed by those openly homosexual. Ron was looking absolutely frantic, and Harry was about to explode trying to hold back his giggles. Finally, Hermione took pity on Ron and added, "But that's just not my cup of tea," and patted him lightly on the knee as she graced him with an indulgent smile. Harry could hear Ron's sigh of relief from across the room.

They passed the time alternating between Exploding Snap and Wizard Chess, trying to ignore Hermione who insisted on reading aloud from the many books she'd pilfered.

"Ooh! Listen to this," she exclaimed as Harry's knight took one of Ron's pawns. "Did you know thestrals can live to be over three hundred years old?"

"Isn't that fascinating?" Ron deadpanned, clearing what was left of his chess piece from the board. Thestrals were indeed not Ron's favourite subject, though Harry found Hermione's trivia rather interesting. He hadn't wholly disliked their flight from Hogwarts to London. But then, he'd been able to see what he was mounted on.

"They were considered bad luck," Hermione continued, "as they were most often seen after great battles, scavenging the fallen. They were associated with unicorns of all things, considered to be their darker counterparts. It was thought that they were attracted to death, evil, and treachery as unicorns are attracted to youth, innocence, and goodness." Ron grumbled. Whether it was because of the thestral lesson or because Harry took another of his pawns, Harry couldn't tell. Most likely a combination of the two.

"There are all sorts of things about magical attraction in here," Hermione continued, ignoring him. "Virgins have been used for centuries to lure certain monsters, or else act as a sacrifice. Muggle priests and nuns were believed the most efficient vampire hunters because it was once thought vampires craved only virgin blood."

"Hermione," groaned Ron finally. "Harry's about to have plenty of this stuff crammed down his throat on a daily basis. You think you could give it a rest and let him enjoy what may be his last day of freedom?"

Harry actually had been enjoying himself until Ron reminded him of his imminent doom that is, though he didn't say anything. Slightly affronted but giving Harry a pitying look, Hermione stowed the stolen books and joined in a round of cards... which was somewhat less enjoyable because of it, as she insisted on contesting every card Ron lay down and citing rules every play. This soon incited an ugly argument, and the game was abandoned. The rest of the afternoon was spent in near silence with Ron and Hermione pointedly ignoring one another.

At six o'clock sharp, Mrs. Weasley rescued them with a summons to the basement where there was assembled enough food to feed two armies. A shiny red and gold banner, very similar to the one hung to celebrate Ron and Hermione's being made prefects the year before, was strung across the far wall. Beneath it was what appeared to be all those associated with the Order who could spare the time. The twins pulled Harry into back to back noogies, releasing him just in time to receive a clap on the back from Hagrid which sent him staggering. A chorus of 'Happy Birthday's greeted him. He smiled gratefully back at Ginny, Tonks, Mundungus Fletcher, and even Percy who rose from his chair and shook Harry's hand as if they were old war buddies. "Dad couldn't make it, what with his promotion," he said importantly. "He's asked me to pass along his well wishes."

Harry searched the assembly, but there was nary a sign of either Remus or the Headmaster. Harry couldn't help but feel a bit dejected, despite the sea of good cheer through which he presently waded. Mrs. Weasley stood behind the crowd, smiling hopefully at Harry, and he forced himself into an approving smile and nodded. She practically burst with gratification.

"Now Harry dear, you sit right here at the head of the table, and we'll fetch the cake," she said as she stepped forward to seize him and steer him to the seat of honour where he was to be doted upon and generally embarrassed for the rest of the evening. Though, between Mundungus' anecdotes of capers gone awry and the antics of both Tonks and the twins, Harry found himself enjoying the evening despite himself. It was, after all, his very first birthday party.

Hagrid was the first to leave. As soon as the candles were blown out, he gave Harry another hearty slap on the back that almost sent him face first into his cake and then disappeared. Percy, who was a bit quiet though otherwise his pompous self, was next. He became uncomfortable at any mention of the Ministry and was particularly insulted when Tonks, during a series of requested impressions, morphed into Fudge; insisting adamantly that her pumpkin juice was, in fact, only water and then that is most certainly did not exist at all ("Harry, how dare you spread such wild and unfounded rumours! Why, they haven't made pumpkin juice for years.") as she sought to dispose of it 'nonchalantly' into Harry's goblet. Percy finally stormed off when his very loud and equally pathetic defence of the former Minister was drowned out by a chorus of snorts and giggles.

During the lull, after the cake had been cleared, and Hermione and Ginny were chatting idly with a now 'normal' Tonks, and Mundungus had left on some important business for the twins (who Harry noticed were being cornered by a near-frantic Ron as they tried to make their own exit), Harry shuffled over to an ever-busy Mrs. Weasley to thank her for the party.

"My pleasure, dear," she beamed, eyes moist again. "My pleasure."

"Er. You don't happen to know where Remus is off to?" he asked hopefully.

"Why, yes. He's gone to Surrey to collect your things. The poor dear," she said sadly. "He felt it was the least he could do, not having much else to give you for your birthday." But as the subject of poverty disquieted her for obvious reasons, Harry quickly thanked her again and, despite the resultant groans and pleading, bid everyone a good night.

Harry dragged himself, tired and sated, upstairs. It had been a considerably eventful day, and the next (he shuddered) promised to be, as well. He certainly did not look forward to his Occlumency lesson with Snape. The man seemed put on this earth expressly to make Harry miserable. He half wondered that Snape hadn't shown up that night just so he might sour the celebrations. Still, despite Snape's blessed absence, the evening had indeed been tainted. As he crawled into bed, Harry couldn't help thinking sadly that, as nice as the gesture was, he'd much rather have had Remus there himself than the entire contents of Privet Drive.

  
  



	5. To Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

Harry woke surprisingly early the next morning and, though he was still exhausted, found himself unable to go back to sleep. After much futile tossing and turning, he gave up and rolled out of bed to begin searching for his clothes. He'd not brought a change and would have to make do with the outfit he'd worn the day before until Remus returned with his things. In fact, Remus might have already returned and not wanted to wake him, and that hopeful thought lent some speed to Harry's search.

Harry shuffled around the room, half-asleep, having not yet even put on his glasses, drawn to bright coloured patches amid the grey tones of the room which he supposed to be his scattered articles of clothing.

White. A shirt? Yes, there was his shirt. A smear of green, his jumper. Now, where had his trousers got to? A smudge of ochre peeked from under his bed. He stooped to retrieve it, but as he was bent and squinting into the dark beneath, he heard a derisive snort and a snigger. Harry straightened, bleary-eyed and sans spectacles, and looked about the room, but the only other occupant was Ron. Or the lump in the bed across from him he assumed must be Ron, sawing logs still and dead to the world. Harry stuck his finger in his ear and gave it a wiggle. It was too early in the morning to think. He stooped again to resume his search.

"What a lovely pair of under shorts, Potter," came a voice from behind him. Harry leapt to his feet and did an about face. Phineas Nigellus was sitting in his frame and eyeing him with mild disdain. Harry flushed and lowered his armful of clothes to cover himself, dropping most of them in the process.

"Do you mind?" Harry asked curtly.

"No, not at all," Phineas replied lazily with a casual wave of his hand, apparently having no intention of turning away, much less leaving.

 _Git_ , Harry thought, trying to crouch and feel for his trousers without turning or uncovering himself with his wadded shirt. He'd never been particularly fond of Phineas and now felt completely justified.

"Did they know," Harry asked sharply, groping the bare floorboards behind him, "that you enjoyed watching half-naked boys when they appointed you Headmaster?"

"I do not like watching boys, you impertinent whelp," Phineas replied with cool condescension. "I was simply commenting on the shabby condition of your wardrobe." Harry looked down and had to concede his faded blue boxers had seen better days. He blushed, dearly hoping these were not the pair with the holes worn in the seat. "As I seem to remember, your father was not exactly destitute. Surely you could come up with something less disgraceful."

Finally! Harry's fingers closed on corduroy and he yanked his trousers from under the bed and slipped into them as quickly as possible, feeling a wave of relief when he got the zipper up.

"No. I do not 'play for the other team' if that's what you meant," Phineas sneered, refusing to leave Harry to dress in peace. Gods, had he taken dictation? Harry had forgotten about their voyeuristic roommate. Dumbledore had surely charged him with keeping an ear out, which made Harry rather uncomfortable. They'd have to be careful what they said from then on. No doubt Phineas had already reported the stolen library books. Though, if Dumbledore took offence to that he'd surely have spoken of it by now. Harry had a sudden thought as he pulled on his glasses and spied Ron. He certainly hoped his and Hermione's summer activities had been confined to holding hands and doe-eyed looks.

"Still," Phineas went on thoughtfully as he gave Harry a shrewd, appraising look. He seemed oblivious to Harry's pointed attempt to ignore him. "A man doesn't necessarily have to be so inclined to appreciate something fine when he views it. It's a matter of aesthetics really."

Harry froze. Did Phineas just call him fine?

"Was there something in particular you needed?" Harry snapped, pulling his jumper over his head and reaching for his shoes. Phineas drew himself up brusquely.

"Dumbledore sent me to make sure you woke at a decent hour."

"Well, I'm awake. You can go now," Harry said rudely. With a 'tsk' and a bit of indignant murmuring, Phineas disappeared behind one side of his frame. Trainers laced, Harry was ready to be gone and made for the door.

"Good luck," came Phineas' voice from the empty canvas. "From what I hear you'll need all you can get." He was still sniggering as Harry closed the door behind him.

Harry trudged to the kitchen, not completely alert but awake; and irritated. And _hungry_. It couldn't be later than six o'clock, and Harry found himself wondering what time Mrs. Weasley started her day. He'd likely have to scavenge, though he didn't mind it.

When he stepped into the kitchen, a small fire was indeed crackling in the grate, and a plate of bacon, eggs, and scones sat steaming on the end of the table closest the door. There was no sign of Mrs. Weasley, though. Harry eyed the breakfast ravenously, assuming hopefully that it was meant for him. But then he noticed something else that instantly ruined his appetite. In the shadows at the far end of the table, almost invisible in his black robes and lank shield of greasy black hair, sat Professor Snape, as dour and formidable as ever. Harry's day just went from bad to worse, and he'd only been awake for ten minutes.

"What a surprise," Snape smirked. "Eager to begin are we?" Harry had the fierce desire to crawl back into bed and hide beneath his sheets until the day was over. "I was just about to rouse you," Snape informed him.

 _What an unpleasant way to wake up,_ Harry thought with a slight shudder, imagining opening his eyes to Snape stooping over him like a vulture. "We're to begin so early?" Harry complained through a yawn as he wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes.

"The sooner the better. We do not have an unlimited window of opportunity. The Dark Lord is eager to do away with you." He said this in a way that insinuated he didn't quite blame him. "And at your rate of comprehension, it will be a miracle you survive until Christmas. It is indeed unfortunate that you require such time-consuming distractions as sleeping and eating..."

 _Doesn't everyone?_ Harry thought. Snape made it sound as if he was exceptional in this. _The miracle_ _will be surviving the morning with you._

"...so let's get that out of the way so we can begin, shall we?" Snape finished, nodding to the plate before Harry.

"Funny," Harry replied through clenched teeth. "Suddenly, I'm not quite so hungry anymore."

"I did not ask if you were hungry," Snape replied in clipped tones. "I told you to eat. You need your strength. Though, I doubt the entire contents of the cupboard would be sufficient, considering." Snape looked Harry up and down, probably trying to decide whether or not to comment further on Harry's scrawny frame, and grew subtly unsettled. "And I thought I made it quite clear last term how you were to address me, _Mr_. Potter."

Harry had to bite down on his lip to refrain from answering back. _You promised Dumbledore. You promised Dumbledore._ This became Harry's mantra as he plopped down moodily in front of his plate.

"I see those Muggles you live with failed to teach you anything in the way of manners," Snape said disgustedly as he watched Harry shovel food into his mouth. "Though I sympathise, as I myself find it very difficult to teach you anything at all."

Harry's mantra was momentarily forgotten. "You told me to eat," he slurred, intentionally through a mouthful of scone, " _Sir_." He then concentrated on his eggs. Despite his aggravation, one couldn't _not_ enjoy Mrs. Weasley's cooking. About mid-way through his meal, however, noticing the sudden cessation of the stream of insults from the opposite end of the table, Harry glanced up at Snape. He seemed to be concentrating on Harry's meal as hard as Harry was. The man followed every forkful from plate to mouth as if starving. Harry wondered why in hell he didn't just have some himself and stop ogling Harry's.

"Do you have to watch every bite?" Harry asked peevishly. "I promise I'm not hiding them down my jumper."

Snape started and appeared flustered. "Hurry up," he snarled, rearranging the sleeves of his robes as if they suddenly irked him. However, it was not humanly possible to ingest food any faster than at the rate which Harry now inhaled his breakfast. He threw Snape a suspicious look through his fringe, which went unnoticed as Snape pretended to be fascinated with his own lap until Harry pushed his plate back and downed his orange juice, setting the empty cup down with a bang.

"Quite finished?" Snape asked, eyebrow raised as Harry glowered at him as though he'd been waiting impatiently on Snape for hours.

"Quite," Harry replied, smacking of sarcastic politeness.

"Good."

Snape led him to an unused room on the topmost floor, far from where the rest of the house slept. _Probably so he can berate me as loudly as he wants without interruption_ , Harry thought darkly. Snape entered before Harry and held the door open for him to follow. The room was large, though empty but for a few scattered pieces of furniture covered in yellowing and mildewed sheets. Snape closed the door and swept further inside the room, turning abruptly toward Harry when he reached its centre, wand already in hand. Harry scrambled for his own wand, half expecting to be hit by _Legilimens_ before it was out.

"Relax, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his lip curling. "I have come to the conclusion that my previous methods might not have been the most efficient." Harry tried to do as he was told, lowering his wand but finding it difficult to loosen his death-grip on it. "Now, I realise you've slept since, but do you, by any chance, remember how to prepare yourself for a Legilimency attack?" Snape asked, his eyebrows arched as if he doubted it.

"Clear my mind. Let go of emotion," Harry said shortly.

"Very good," Snape said with feigned admiration. "At this rate, you may yet live to see Easter." Harry seethed, every muscle clenched in his effort not to say something he'd regret. _This is impossible_ , he thought.

Snape eyed him coldly. "This is impossible," he muttered to himself. So they were in agreement. There's a first time for everything. Snape put away his wand and found a chair among the sheeted furnishings, sitting down heavily. Harry wondered if he was expected to do the same.

"You realise, Mr. Potter, that should the Dark Lord attempt Legilimency, you will not be warned beforehand and so will not be given the opportunity to prepare. You must be able to achieve the desired state of mind instantly and at will. Starting today, I'd like you to perform daily meditation. Though what is desired here is not exactly relaxation, meditation will strengthen your discipline of mind."

"Meditation?" Harry asked sceptically. Snape glared at him until he remembered himself. "Sir?" he added quickly. Snape took a calming breath and answered.

"Yes, meditation. I realise you may not be extremely world savvy, but surely you know what meditation is don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied tersely.

"Bravo," Snape said dryly. "As it comes naturally to me I cannot, nor do I care to, instruct you on the process." Snape sneered, "Though I'm sure you can alert Miss Granger to your need. No doubt, if she isn't already as well versed in this as she is every other subject under the sun, it should be no problem for her to procure the necessary information."

"You want me to involve Hermione in this? Sir? I thought I was supposed to keep this all a secret, pretend I'm taking _remedial potions_?" Harry cheeked.

"I did not tell you to inform her _why_ you were meditating, only that you shall be and require her assistance," Snape said snidely. "Though, contrary to what you may believe, I am not an imbecile Mr. Potter, and know perfectly well that you share everything with Granger and Weasley...as unwise as that may be. Though it seems you have no qualms about endangering the lives of those around you out of your selfish craving for pity and attention."

"How dare you!"

"Propriety, Mr. Potter," Snape reminded him darkly.

"Bugger propriety!" Harry spat, all memory of his promise forgotten. He saw no reason why he should bend over backwards to remain civil when Snape was clearly making no effort himself. Snape's eyes narrowed and glinted dangerously, but Harry wasn't intimidated. "You don't know anything about me and I'm sick of your assumptions. I'm sick of the way you treat me because of them."

"I know enough," Snape replied, voice low and threatening, "have _seen_ enough to recognise your total disregard for caution, consideration, common sense, and the well-being of those around you. Like father like son," he finished in a low hiss.

"I am _not_ my bloody father! Don't you _get_ that?"  

Snape rose swiftly to his feet. "I cannot believe the fate of the world rests in the hands of an impertinent _child_!"

"I am not a child!" Harry whined, sounding very juvenile  indeed.

"Dumbledore is a fool. He's been far too free with you, allowing you to run amok unchecked. Even after everything that has happened, you still don't seem to comprehend that your impulsive behaviour may bear consequences other than you intend." Snape was standing menacingly over him now. "It takes a veritable army of us to chase along behind you, trying to keep you from killing yourself. I shudder to think how many more lives will be lost on your account!"

Harry thought that terribly unfair. "It _wasn't_ my fault that my parents...that Cedric..." Harry croaked, his voice proving fickle as he fought what he considered to be childish tears.

"I suppose what happened to your travesty of a godfather has simply slipped your mind," Snape forced in a hiss through gritted teeth.

He'd gone too far. "You can't blame me for Sirius!" Harry cried desperately, shoving at Snape, finding his proximity suffocating. "You can't-"

"Oh, can't I?" Snape said coldly, as oblivious to Harry's shoves as a stone statue.

"Voldemort," Harry squeaked. "He-"

"Did not intend or even wish Black's physical presence at the Ministry that night."

Harry stopped struggling and glared at Snape, anger replacing desperation. "If _you_ hadn't goaded him," he accused. "If you hadn't thrown a fit about the Pensieve and stopped giving me my lessons!"

Snape looked down at him icily, suddenly very calm. "Your godfather was a grown man, Mr. Potter, though he rarely behaved as one. Still, he had enough sense to understand the danger of his situation. That he decided to risk his own life to save yours was his prerogative. Despite my 'goading', he refrained from leaving this house until the day he died. And at that time, considering your immediate peril, I _assure_ you no amount of pleading on my part, or anyone else's on the face of this earth--nothing short of a _full body binding_ spell--would have kept him here." Harry had backed away from Snape until he was pressed flat against the wall behind him and was shaking so badly he might have collapsed if he hadn't.

"As far as your Occlumency lessons are concerned," Snape continued condemningly, "if you had made the slightest effort to cooperate, I might have reacted differently. I _might_ have called you back after I'd had time to calm myself. But it was apparent to me my efforts were in vain. I could have spent every waking moment attempting to teach you Occlumency, but as you _welcomed_ the Dark Lord's bait, it would have been utterly futile."

Harry couldn't reply, could barely _stand_ , he was so angry. Just what did Snape know about it? He didn't know what Harry had been going through. He didn't know what it was like. No one did or ever had. Who was he to lay blame?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," Snape said now, sounding completely unapologetic, "but you can no longer live under these self-delusions. We simply cannot afford it. We don't have time for your self-pity. I won't pretend to believe a word of, or to give a damn about, what that ridiculous prophecy has to say. But that doesn't matter. What is important is the Dark Lord _does_ believe it. And the longer we keep you alive, the more time we buy; the longer we have to derail him before he launches an earnest attack. The truth is," he said, his voice dropping to an ominous whisper as he leaned in closer to Harry, "you provide a very valuable distraction, Mr. Potter. And. Nothing. More."

 _A virgin sacrifice_ , Harry thought. _Just like in Hermione's book._

No. It wasn't true. Couldn't be. Harry straightened and squared his shoulders, looking Snape dead in the eye. "You're a bastard," he said evenly, his anger and absolute hatred of the man in front of him reaching such a pitch that it suddenly lent him an inexplicable calm and clarity of thought.

Snape raised one eyebrow though otherwise seemed unfazed, and he reflected Harry's distaste back at him. "And you are an arrogant, ungrateful, incompetent, reckless, and insufferable prat," he replied in the same even tone.

They glared at each other for a long while. Something shifted. A subtle change came over the very air. They were no longer even bothering to feign respect or resignation or even tolerance. They hated each other openly, and something clicked into place. For a moment, Snape's presence was not unbearable. Their admissions, spoken and unspoken, had somehow had a freeing effect and Harry thought, wonderingly, that he just might be able to do this after all.

"Now," Snape intoned, "are you quite ready to get on with it?" Harry nodded and Snape took several steps back, not bothering to count down before he uttered an impassioned _Legilimens!_ But Harry had been ready for it. A few fuzzy images of Mrs. Figg's photo album full of cats and then the dark, cobwebbed corners of the inside of his lonely little cupboard drifted across his vision, but he never lost sight of Snape. After only a moment's disorientation, Harry was able to cast a disarming spell, consciously and intentionally, and Snape's wand went flying out of his hand and over his head.

Harry's heart hammered in his chest and he felt utterly spent. He was bent double, but he still held his wand, and he was still standing. Harry felt vindicated and lifted a triumphant gaze to Snape. The man eyed him critically.

"Bravo," he whispered, stone-faced. But this time, Harry could have sworn he could detect genuine approval in the Potion Master's voice.


	6. This Mortal Coil

The lesson, though strenuous, was not considerably long, for which Harry thanked his lucky stars. Though he was certainly not as adept as he would have liked, Harry succeeded in disarming Snape twice more. However, as his anger cooled and his energy dwindled, he found himself easy prey for Snape's advanced skill. Sometime around eight in the morning, after Harry had collapsed in the room's lone chair and begged rather pitifully that they take a break, Snape declared the session over and swept from the room without another word. Perhaps the sincerity in Harry's voice had frightened him off. Not that Harry had expected praise, but he had wanted some idea of when he would next be subjected to this torture.

Harry dragged himself to his feet and peeked behind the (luckily) de-doxied curtains just as Snape strode off the front steps and, a few paces down the deserted street, Apparated. Harry stared at the empty space Snape had occupied only moments before and reflected on the rather odd, though strangely freeing, exchange between them. Then he gazed up over the rooftops of the stark and decrepit building across from him at the soft pastel morning that hung over London and longed for his Firebolt. The weather was perfect for flying. Not that he would have been allowed to do so, or really have had the energy just at the moment. The sun had not yet even risen over the low wall of morning clouds. He still had an entire day ahead of him, and all Harry wanted was to crawl back into bed. Muscles Harry wasn't even aware he had until that morning were beginning to ache. 

He made his way slowly down the stairs, each step a challenge all its own, but his efforts were well rewarded. The rest of the house had begun to stir and Harry reached the kitchen just in time for a second round of breakfast. His first, though plentiful, had not been shown the proper respect, and after the morning's exertions he was again famished. Mrs. Weasley wasted little time remedying this. She loaded his plate with sausages, garnishing it with a hail of _Poor Dear_ s and _That Dreadful Man._ He was thoroughly savouring a fresh stack of pancakes when Hermione emerged, soon followed by Ginny and, finally, a barely conscious Ron.

His sausages devoured and so no longer a diversion, Harry asked Mrs. Weasley if Remus had returned. He had not. That meant that the shirt Harry wore, still clingy with sweat from his lesson and likely to soon prove unbearably offensive, would have to be tolerated a while longer. It also meant his lesson on part-humans would probably be cancelled. Harry had the rest of the day to himself.

Hermione showed him the library where he ended up napping as she perused the shelves, covetously calling off all the more interesting titles. (" _The Dark Wizard's Lexicon._ No Death Eater should be without it, I'm sure. Ooh. _Poisons to Serve Your Friends: Inconspicuous Concoctions to Fool Even the Most Astute Apothecary..._ How nasty. And here's an encyclopaedia of potions and their uses. This could come in _very_ useful next term. Oh, and Harry listen to this one...")

They were put to work in the afternoon, winning new ground in their never-ending battle with the decades of grime that coated the house. Though Harry was excused from this labour, he lent a hand anyway, having nothing more exciting to do. He was set to work on the baseboards with a toothbrush and a pail of cleaning potion so powerful, he was convinced it was mostly comprised of acid. ("Nonsense, Dear. Just a teaspoon of bundimun spit is all," Mrs. Weasley has assured him.) Nonetheless, he demanded a pair of dragon hide gloves. He worked his way around the room, scooting around the floor and scrubbing lazily until he found himself sitting beneath the family tree of the Noble House of Black. It was easy enough to spot the scorch mark that had once been Sirius' name. Not far from it was Bellatrix'. Casting a couple of quick glances over his shoulder, Harry tried to see if his cleaning potion would eat through her name as well as it did the rest of the filth in the room. Unfortunately, it did not, so Harry sought to ignore it and studied the other names, most of which were rather odd and many foreign. Not far from Lestrange was a Lubershnitz. Sirius also had cousins named Pakle and Jixy. And Cobbleshot: Albert and a daughter Loraina. It sounded familiar somehow, but Harry couldn't recall ever meeting anyone by that name. Well, the stitching was in pristine condition, which meant Harry probably wouldn't really want to know them anyway.

Around five, Mrs. Weasley dragged Ginny and Hermione to the kitchen with her, and after a hearty dinner at six, Harry officially ran out of steam. Before heading to bed he remembered to pull Ron aside and warn him about Phineas. ("You mean he's been listening the _whole time_?!" asked Ron, turning an alarming shade of crimson.)

With each step that carried him closer to the promise of a cosy bed, Harry's energy ebbed further and further away, so that by the time he reached his room he was amazed he'd made it there at all. As he made a beeline for his bed, he decided he didn't give a light about Phineas and shed his clothes right and left before falling, bare but for his faded blue boxers, atop his sheets where he promptly lost consciousness. He never heard Ron come up to bed, neither did he hear him rise, but when he woke Ron was already up and dressed and appeared to have been for some time.

"What time is it?" Harry mumbled groggily.

"'Bout eleven," Ron told him . Harry gaped disbelievingly.

" _Eleven_?"

"Mum said we should give you a bit of a lie-in, as you had a hard day yesterday and are gonna have a hard afternoon today, as well."

"I'm going to have a hard rest of my life," Harry grumbled and rolled onto his stomach, pulling the sheets over his head. _But the way it's looking, that might not be very much longer,_ he thought to himself. Ron gave him a sympathetic look.

"Well you won't be alone, y'know. Me and 'Mione are taking the liberty of training up as well, just in case you need us." Ron threw an uneasy look over at Phineas' painting and started to whisper. "She's finding all sorts of great stuff in the library. We've got your back, mate."

Harry's sleepy mind was still trying to digest the ''Mione' part ( _Since when is she called 'Mione?)_ and it took him a bit to absorb everything Ron had just said. When it sank in, however, he ripped back his sheets and sat up, giving Ron a very serious look. "Now, Ron, I don't want you two thinking you have to do that. It isn't that I don't appreciate the thought, but I almost got you killed last time." As Harry said this, it seemed he only just realised it. Perhaps hadn't wanted to accept it, especially after what Snape had said the morning before. Though, now that he thought about it, and as much as he hated to admit it, the man just might have had a point. "This is my battle," he said sombrely, more to himself than to Ron. "I can't keep asking you guys to risk your lives for me."

"Why not? You're risking your life for all of us," Ron argued. Harry gave Ron a disgruntled look and reached for his glasses before rolling out of bed. "Fine then, if it makes you feel better, it's nothing to do with you, alright?" Ron continued. Harry lifted his head from where he was stooped to retrieve his trousers and raised an eyebrow at Ron sceptically. "We just want to be able to jinx the snot out of ferret boy next year. Satisfied?" Harry frowned at him. He couldn't keep them from studying, but he refused to condone their help. Finally, he shrugged and Ron nodded as if all was settled.

As he tightened his belt (curling a lip defiantly at Phineas' canvas) Harry glanced around for his shirt and found it had disappeared. He told himself, irritably, that he should have learned something from yesterday's episode. But he'd simply been too tired the previous night to care about where his clothes landed. Harry dropped to all fours between his and Ron's beds to look beneath them when there was a knock at the door. He let Ron answer it as he continued to hunt.

"Is Harry awake yet?" a familiar voice inquired softly. Harry shot to his knees.

"Remus!" he exclaimed happily, beaming at their most welcome guest.

Professor Lupin turned toward the sound of his name, for a moment unable to discern where it had come from. When he spied Harry kneeling behind the bed, his mouth fell open and his eyes widened but then narrowed in an almost feral way. Harry leaned forward onto Ron's bed, head cocked questioningly, but Remus had turned away. He cleared his throat, speaking to Harry as if with some difficulty, and was looking everywhere _but_ at Harry which, again, Harry found slightly bothersome.

"Excuse me," he rasped. "I didn't realise you..." He took a settling breath. "Perhaps it would be better...I'll come back later," he concluded, stepping toward the door.

"No!" Harry objected rising to his feet. "I'm not busy or anything. I just woke up is all." Remus glanced over his shoulder at him and seemed somewhat relieved though still uncomfortable. Clearing his throat again, "Yes. Well. Ron, would you excuse us please?"

Ron, who had been watching the professor with increasing perplexity, came from his daze and shrugged. "What for? He's gonna tell me anyway."

 _Don't be so sure of that anymore,_ Harry thought. Besides, he could tell by his sober expression that Remus did not want an audience. "Go on, Ron. I'll meet you downstairs in a bit," he prompted.

"Not going downstairs. Was going to Ginny and 'Mione's room."

"Then I'll meet you in Ginny and ' _Mione's_ room," Harry said impatiently. Reluctant, but arguing no further, Ron shrugged and left. Remus closed the door securely behind him but didn't turn around.

"So what's up?" Harry asked, swiping at his bed-hair. He was now very awake and even almost chipper.

"Harry, don't you think you ought to put on your shirt," Remus said, a little sharply.

"Can't find it," Harry explained, reaching over and peeking under his pillow for good measure. "I'll have to wear one you've brought me."

Finally, Remus turned and looked at Harry, though he was reluctant to make eye contact. "Actually, that's what I've come to talk to you about," he said anxiously. Harry scrunched up his nose in confusion. What was there to talk about? Where had Remus disappeared to for the last two days if not to collect Harry's things?

"Um, you wanna sit down or something?" Harry offered, yanking at his trouser leg and sitting himself. Remus was beginning to make him nervous just hovering by the door like that.

"Oh, no," Remus said very quickly, but after another furtive glance he seemed to change his mind and haltingly took a seat on the corner of the bed furthest from Harry.

 _Do I smell?_ Harry wondered, chancing a subtle sniff. No. Well, not especially.

"Harry," Remus began. " _About_ your things. Actually, about your relatives...and...are you _sure_ you can't find your shirt?" he asked to the floorboards.

"I've not looked very well," Harry shrugged. "Why are you on about my shirt?"

"Because it's the only one you'll have until we make it over to Diagon Alley to buy you some new ones," Remus replied.

"What?" Harry asked with a small laugh, thinking for a moment this was a joke. "Why?"

Remus sighed, looking dejected. "Because you don't own another. In fact, you don't have anything at all anymore except your wand and the clothes you came in."

"Plain. English," Harry requested tersely, becoming irritated with his cryptic friend. Remus pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger.

"Harry, you see the Dursleys...Well, it's your cousin..." Remus just couldn't seem to find the words he wanted. He took a very deep breath and fished something out of his pocket. "Harry, have you ever seen one of these?" A colourful paper straw rested in his palm.

"Yeah. Ron sent me one for my birthday. The twins made it. But I left mine behind," Harry explained shortly, wondering what in hell a potentially intoxicating candy had to do with his wardrobe.

"Did you give it to your cousin?" Remus asked urgently.

"No," Harry began but recanted. "Well, yes, sort of on accident. I gave him the box of chocolates Hermione sent me and I forgot that I dropped it in there."

"Did your aunt and uncle _see_ you give it to him?"

"Yeah, why? What's going on?"

Remus studied Harry's face as if trying to gauge his reaction. "Harry, your cousin is dead," he said gently.

The words seemed to float in the air between them, surreal. Harry looked at Remus sceptically, then started to smile and admit he'd almost been had. But something about Remus' grim expression made him pause. "Dead?" Harry whispered. Remus nodded sadly.

"Poisoned," he explained. "It took quite a bit of doing, but we managed to get this from the Muggle policemen," he said, referring to the now-empty straw.

"You mean it was the candy?" Harry blinked. "But Ron's tried them too," he rushed to explain, "and he's just fine."

"No. It wasn't candy, Harry. The candy had been replaced with a poison." Harry shook his head, not comprehending, then gasped and looked back up at Remus.

"Wait. Surely you don't think Ron or-"

"No, we don't suspect Ron or the twins," Remus assured him quickly. "But we do think Ron's letter was intercepted."

Hedwig! Where was she? Harry now wished he hadn't ignored her. Had she tried to tell him? Had she been hurt? He didn't even pay that much attention to her at the time, might only have noticed if she had been bleeding on his letters. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen Hedwig since she had dropped off Ron's gift. He wasn't even sure she knew he was at Grimmauld Place. But surely she'd have come straight there after she found he wasn't at Privet Drive.

"Dudley's dead," Harry said dazedly. It still hadn't sunk in. Someone had tried to kill him, and Harry had inadvertently killed Dudley instead. The first and only time he'd ever made any sort of friendly gesture toward the boy and it had killed him, but not from shock as Harry might have expected.

_How many more lives will be lost on your account?_

"I didn't mean to," Harry blurted, but to no one in particular, unaware of the tears of panic that were rising in his eyes. "I didn't _know_ ," he insisted shakily.

"Of course, you didn't, Harry," Remus consoled, laying a comforting hand on Harry's knee and appearing quite distraught himself. "We aren't blaming you at all. But we've got to be very careful from now on. They came much too close this time."

Harry could just imagine his aunt and uncle, raging over the death of their 'darling' son. Despite their strained history, Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for them. They'd saved his life by taking him under their roof, and it had cost them their own child. Harry knew they'd never believe him even if he could bring himself to express his condolences. They'd never, ever forgive Harry if they found out...

"Do they know? I mean, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Do they know that the poison was meant for me?" he asked timidly. Remus didn't answer right away.

"They seem to believe you did it yourself," he said slowly. "They think that's why you disappeared. They had the Muggle law enforcement looking for you. Of course, the police aren't so sure. Dudley ran with a tough crowd. They think his death involves drugs. Or at least, if they didn't before, they do now. The Ministry has been working since the day before last to get it all straightened out. But yes. Your relatives are blaming you, Harry."

Harry couldn't believe it.

No. He could believe it, and it infuriated him.

"So, is that why they wouldn't give you my things?" he demanded, jaw clenched. "Couldn't you have just _taken_ them?"

"I couldn't take them, Harry, because there was nothing left to take. Your Uncle destroyed everything. All evidence you ever existed at Privet Drive."

Harry was absolutely livid. He couldn't even shout another incredulous ' _What_?!' Gods, he felt like smashing something. Preferably Vernon's skull.

"It's unfortunate," Remus said, "but I'm afraid, all things considered, you won't be able to return to Privet Drive."

"I wouldn't go back if they _begged_ me on their hands and knees!" said Harry.

"You don't understand, Harry. You've lost your only real safe haven."

"As long as Dumbledore is secret keeper, I'm safe here," Harry argued.

"It's not the same kind of protection, not as secure."

"I should have come here before, anyway," Harry went on as if Remus hadn't spoken, growing more and more upset. "I should have come _last_ summer, while Sirius..." Harry choked on the remainder of his sentence. Instead of comforting him further, Remus withdrew his hand and looked away, drawing his own painful breath and looking more in need of consolation than his ward. Having mentioned Sirius, however, Harry was reminded of something else. He looked pleadingly at Remus.

"My Firebolt. Remus, please tell me he didn't-" Harry had barely started his sentence before Remus frowned and began to shake his head.

Harry was really incensed now. His Firebolt! A gift from Sirius and his most prized possession, gone forever. Every muscle in Harry's body was taut, he clenched and released his fists, flexing his arms in a near-futile attempt to reign in his anger and not tear around the room in an absolute rage. He lifted his head abruptly to demand something else of Remus but instantly forgot what it was.

Remus was staring at him but, per usual, not in the eye. Though this time it was different. His mouth had fallen slack and his eyes were somewhat glazed. He looked...hungry, a ravenous animal catching sight of fresh meat. Harry had never seen that look before, and most certainly not when directed at him. It made him shiver but not in an adverse way, and his heart began to beat a little faster. Then he became very self-conscious of the fact that he was still bare-chested, though he made no move to cover himself. Harry just stared, awestruck, at the man who was staring at his chest until Remus noticed his attention. He flushed badly and jerked his eyes away, suddenly restless and stammering.

"Yes...er. Well. I suppose we'll have to get you some new things this week. First thing. I do believe your Hogwarts letters have come in this morning. Yes. So it will be quite convenient." But Harry didn't absorb a word. He was still silently regarding Remus as though entranced. He would never, could never, forget the expression Remus had worn, if only for a moment, as he had looked at Harry.

"If you can't find your shirt," Remus continued to the far wall, standing abruptly, "perhaps Ron can lend you one. Oh. Though, you aren't the same size. Let's see, I might have one. Then there's always...Sirius' closet," he said, voice trailing off to a hoarse whisper. He glanced at Harry and looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he abandoned it and strode hastily to the door. There he stopped, half-way through. He swallowed hard and wet his lips, and chanced another glance over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said softly. Then he was gone.

Harry watched him go, still dumbfounded. For the life of him, he could not be quite sure exactly which part Remus had just apologised for.


	7. Make Your Wantonness Your Ignorance

_Chapter art by Snapeplushies_

_...a useful distraction...nothing more..._

_...what happened to your travesty of a godfather..._

_You can't blame me..._

_Can't I?_

_I want you to take this._

_What is it?_

_A way of letting me know if Snape is giving you a hard time. I want you to use it if you need me, alright?_

 

Harry sat on the floor of Sirius' wardrobe fondling the small mirror that was now his last remaining souvenir of his late godfather. He'd come in search of a shirt but had found, instead, a sanctuary; a buoy in the relentlessly shifting tide of feelings, thoughts, and questions that had begun to rise in him the morning before and now, swollen to the breach by Remus' disturbing news, threatened to overwhelm him completely.

It was quiet in the wardrobe. A good kind of quiet, not like the deafening silence that rang throughout the rest of the house, which was so oppressive it almost seemed sentient. Harry sometimes fancied the house watched him, waiting for moments like these when all his most painful memories had been stirred to the surface, and the stillness could prove more dangerous than the most brutal Legilimens attack. Here, however, among Sirius' things, the quiet was comforting.

Here, he could smell Sirius all around him. Almost three months of marinating in the stale air of Grimmauld Place had not yet purged Sirius' scent from his clothes. Harry let that scent envelop him. He relaxed into it with a sense of calm and security as if it were Sirius' embrace itself. Safe in his comfortable nest of cotton and denim and dragonhide, Harry let his mind play itself out. All those thoughts he could no longer keep at bay were allowed to race freely.

How would this all end? How many more would be lost before it did? Was Dudley really gone? Was Harry truly free of Privet Drive, and must it have come at such a price? Was Snape right? Was Sirius' death really his fault?

It was this last question, in this place, that seemed most pressing to Harry. He stared into the mirror Sirius had given him, concentrating on the thin line of light from the crack at the bottom of the door reflected in his glasses and across the contour of his eyes as it was really the only thing discernible in the darkness. The longer he stared at it, the less solidity those painful thoughts retained. They slowly lost form and dissolved into a general, wordless ache, and then a tingling numbness. Harry simply drifted on Sirius' scent, suspended in time, the light in the mirror his only anchor. The world beyond the wardrobe door seemed less and less like reality.

In here, it was so easy to imagine Sirius still lived, that he was only just down the hall with Buckbeak. It was so easy to imagine this was not Grimmauld Place at all, just a place he shared with his godfather, the one he had always dreamed of while locked away at Privet Drive. There was no Dark Lord here. There was no Snape, no training, no threat. Here was _home_ , and Harry was happy.

 _Happy._ Harry then tried to recall if he had ever been happy: content and carefree. He wondered if he was even imagining it correctly, or if it was possible to having never known it, however much he had longed for it. Did his idea of happiness bear any resemblance to the reality of the thing? He wasn't sure. But he was certain he had never truly been happy. Each time he had come close it had been tainted by something...a sense of expectancy, a knowledge it wouldn't last. Nothing so wonderful as that could ever be allowed to happen to Harry Potter.

He had always felt wary, threatened. Preyed upon. Yes, that is exactly what Harry had always been, even at the Dursleys: prey.

 _Is that why I do what I do?_ he asked himself. Perhaps he was driven toward danger out of rebellion against that sense of helplessness, so that he could fool himself into believing he'd had some choice in the matter, and so even if he was harmed by those who preyed upon him it would not be by their will alone. Master of his own destiny, wasn't that the expression? What a silly delusion. Hadn't one of his favourite excuses always been his faultless victimisation? Who was he trying to fool with it anyway? Those who criticised him or himself? Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in between, a taste of it all together.

The answer was there were no answers. Yet even as Harry considered these matters, he felt hunted. Even as he sat locked in his sanctuary, hiding from the outside world, doing nothing to provoke it, he felt its threat. Someone somewhere sought him. Someone was drawing close. He could feel it like hot breath on the back of his neck.

"Who are you?" Harry wondered dreamily to himself. "Where are you?"

_Where are you?_

Was that his own voice? It seemed soothing. Trustworthy. Maybe Phineas had been right. Maybe he was cracking up. Harry gave a short laugh. "I'm in the closet."

 _Where_ are _you, Harry?_

"I told you I'm in the..." Harry paused. Where was he? "I'm...I'm alone."

_Are you hiding from something?_

"I suppose I am."

_And what are you hiding from, Harry? Are you frightened of something?_

"Aren't I always?"

_Oh? And what of that legendary Gryffindor bravery?_

"Just because you're brave doesn't mean you can't be scared," Harry reasoned calmly. "It's not real courage if you aren't. It's stupidity. Or folly. Something like that. I think someone told me that once."

_Ah. How wise...and who told you these things?_

"Does it even matter?"

_I like your way of thinking. What are you scared of now, Harry?_

Harry thought for a long time. "Of being alone," he finally admitted.

_Then why aren't you with the others?_

"I'm even more afraid of being with them and still being alone, if that makes sense. And I'm afraid of the things they expect me to do that I can't do."

 _You_ cannot _? And why is that? Do you know your weaknesses? Every man should. Tell them to me. What haunts you, Harry? What hurts you_ most _?_

Harry was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "He's..."

_Yes?_

"He's..."

 _He's what? Who? Answer my questions, Harry_.

Harry felt suddenly confined, trapped and suffocating. He no longer liked this voice.

_Answer me. Tell me what you fear._

"No."

_...Harry-_

"I said, no."

"Harry!"

"No!"

"No what? Harry?"

He was suddenly aware of Remus standing over him in the now-open wardrobe doorway. Light poured in from behind him, blinding Harry who struggled to lift a hand to shield himself from it as if from an imminent blow. "Gods! Harry, you're drenched. What's wrong? What's happened? How did you get here?" Remus asked in a desperate voice as he dropped to his knees beside him.

Harry did not remember lying down, neither could he understand why he was sweating when the air seemed so chill on his still bare skin it practically stung him. His scar burned almost intolerably, and the sudden brightness punctuated this pain. He had difficulty focusing on Remus and felt he was about to be ill. "I'm...I'm not sure," Harry said weakly. "I mean, I came in here to find a shirt. I just, I think I nodded off," he lied. As badly as he was hurting, Remus looked worried enough as it was.

"We've been searching for you for hours," Remus told him, "since you missed your session with me. Snape is downstairs waiting to give you your Occlumency lesson. Dumbledore's there. He's frantic. _I_ was frantic. What in _Merlin's name_..." Remus stopped and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Are you alright?" he asked more gently. "You look pale."

"I think I need to lie down," Harry said. With his arm hooked around Remus' neck, they shuffled out of the wardrobe and over to Remus' bed where he lowered Harry onto his pillow and fussed over him, stroking back his sweat-soaked hair and mopping his brow with his tattered coat sleeve. The pain in Harry's scar was starting to subside, and the room became clearer.

As soon as Harry was settled and appeared to relax, Remus sat back and carefully placed his hands on his knees. "I need to tell the others I've found you," he said, but Harry halted him.

"Not yet. Don't leave me alone just yet," he begged. Remus gave him a worried but indulgent look and settled back onto the bed. Having nothing better on hand, he reached over and stripped the case from his other pillow and set to drying Harry's neck and chest. Harry lay motionless under Remus' ministrations, still not fully recovered from his episode in the wardrobe. Everything still felt a bit surreal, and he looked about him with thoughtful detachment.

For some reason, he only just noticed that Remus had taken over Sirius' old room. Everything was as Sirius had left it, obviously even the wardrobe. Remus' own clothes, of which there were so few he perhaps didn't feel the need for a wardrobe of his own, were hung on the back of the chair at the writing desk in the corner. On the desktop there was a picture of the two, Sirius and Remus, good friends smiling fondly at each other and clasping arms; though their expressions were much less carefree and exuberant than in the photos in Harry's album.

Over the desk hung the legendary Kreacher. He was missing an eye and most of one ear. His face was sullied by claw-like slashes yet looked more pleased than Harry ever remembered him being in life.

_It was the elf who told me--laughing fit to burst--where Sirius had gone._

So the rumours were true. His quiet, unassuming new guardian had indeed slaughtered the thing and brought its head back as a trophy, hanging it in Sirius' room as if in offering. Harry turned his detached, unabashed stare to Remus who was still wiping sweat from him. Could this man who now touched him with such tenderness really have done such a thing? Remus looked weary and apprehensive, and Harry found he rather missed the werewolf's silent sureness, the serene confidence that once infused everything he did or said. What could have caused such a change in him? Harry had not given much thought to Remus Lupin before he'd come to Grimmauld Place that summer. He'd had no real reason. But things had changed. So many things had changed.

He found Remus intrigued him more and more. He was full of paradox. Harry wondered how someone so obviously young could seem at the same time so very old. He was Dumbledore's exact opposite. Remus' face was lined with care but was more handsome for it, Harry thought. His eyes especially bore deep creases that, at the moment, looked as though they must be from kindness. His eyes were often gentle, but also sometimes piercing and wary and ever slightly feral. Harry was warmed by Remus' light, attentive touches yet shivered under them. Quite suddenly Harry was possessed of a desire to understand this man, to spend time with him, but not now out of pity or compassion. Remus had never posed such an enticing mystery as he did at that moment, and Harry wanted to know what went on behind those amber eyes. They seemed so wise, so honest. Harry wanted to see himself through them, as his own he considered too jaded to bear much truth.

Remus noticed Harry's placid, half-lidded stare and grew more concerned. "I'm going to go and get the headmaster," he said, frowning, and rushed to do so. Harry watched him rise without a word.

"Do you blame me?" he asked quietly before Remus could reach the door. He stopped mid-step and turned back to Harry with poorly feigned confusion.

"Harry," he said carefully, "I've said before, there's no way you could have known. No one believes your cousin's death was your fault."

"I didn't mean Dudley," Harry replied, propping himself up on his elbows, though he had a feeling Remus had understood to begin with. "I meant...do you blame me for Sirius? Do you think it was my fault he died? Do you think I killed him?"

Remus stared blankly at Harry for a moment then took a shaky breath. "Of course not," he stammered finally. "How could you think such a thing?"

Harry would not be so easily placated. He looked away, staring thoughtfully at the empty air before him. "You all blame me don't you?" It seemed so obvious now, he wasn't sure why he'd never recognized it before. 

Remus hesitated, clearly debating whether to continue on his errand and let Dumbledore handle the situation or to return to Harry's side. Slowly, he drew back to the bed and looked down at Harry with an expression of deep distress. Absently, he reached out and re-tucked a strand of damp hair that had fallen into Harry's eyes, causing Harry to look up at him and hold his reluctant gaze with one of unflinching resolve. "Is that what _you_ believe, Harry?" Remus asked, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. "Do you really blame yourself?" Again, Harry did not answer the question put to him.

"That doesn't matter. I want to know if _you_ blame me."

Softly, "Harry, I said I didn't."

"That doesn't mean you don't," Harry replied in a hollow voice. "That doesn't mean anything at all, really." He could tell by the look in his eyes that he had wounded Remus, but he didn't relent. "If you don't blame me, why do you avoid me? Why won't you look me in the eye?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Remus said with a nervous laugh. "I'm looking you in the eye now, aren't I?" He wet his lips and began to shift uncomfortably. "I'm going to fetch someone. You aren't well."

Harry reached out and took hold of Remus' wrist to keep him there. Though he pulled against Harry's grasp firmly and steadily, Remus did not jerk away or try to wrench himself free. He looked suddenly frightened of Harry, and Harry could simply not understand why.

Harry didn't understand his own actions, either, or why he was saying such things. He'd never felt Sirius was the reason Remus was so distant, though the thought should have occurred to him before. Still, even now he didn't feel that to be quite the truth. It seemed Harry had an ulterior motive that was unbeknownst to even himself. Yet he continued to ride this wave of impulse, still too numb to comprehend all that was happening or to really care why. "Why did you flinch?" Harry went on. "You act like my touch hurts you."

"It does," Remus rasped breathlessly, surprising Harry.

Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to stand before Remus, allowing only enough room to accommodate the wrist he still held gripped between them. He looked searchingly deep into Remus' eyes. And Remus, though he stood in place, slowly began to lean away from Harry. "But why?" Harry asked in genuine confusion.

"Harry, this isn't the time for this," Remus tried to say sharply, but the quaver in his voice ruined his attempt to sound authoritative.

"When is?" Harry demanded. _And why not?_ As far as Harry knew, he didn't have much time left.

"Harry," Remus said, his composure rapidly crumbling, frozen in place by Harry's unrelenting gaze. "I can't. You're...This is... _It's too soon_ ," he sputtered.

"Too soon for what?" Harry asked, desperate to understand. Remus' wrist flexed under his fingers.

"Too soon after...after Sirius-"

"What does Sirius have to do with you and me?" Harry interrupted. "Because Sirius is dead I can't touch you? Because he's dead you can't look at me?"

" _Yes_."

Harry grimaced at Remus, not comprehending, unaware he was tightening his grip on Remus' wrist.

"Harry, you don't understand. I can't explain it. This is just...wrong," Remus said firmly.

"But why!" Harry cried, growing upset.

"I'm your godfather, Harry-"

" _Sirius_ was my godfather!" Harry interrupted with vehemence he didn't understand.

"You're right! You're right. And I shouldn't be feeling..." He didn't seem to trust himself to voice what it was he was feeling. "It's that _damned spell_ ," Remus growled. "This isn't right. You're still too young. It's too soon."

"What are you _talking_ about!" Harry bellowed, reaching the end of his tether.

"We were lovers, Harry!"

Harry gaped at Remus, unconsciously releasing him, and Remus stumbled back away from him. "What?"

Remus reached behind him to grasp the desk for support. "Your godfather and I were lovers, Harry," he confessed, breathing as though he'd just run a mile. "And I feel I'm betraying him. I can't imagine what he would think of me if he were still alive." He lay his face in his hand. "You turned sixteen," he said as though this was supposed to explain things. "I just never thought it would ever affect _me_." Harry shook his head, he was so very confused. But just as Remus seemed about to elaborate, the bedroom door burst open.

" _Potter!_ " Harry turned a dazed look to Snape, standing in the doorway and looking livid. "Where in _Hell_ have you _been_ _?_ " the Potions Mater snarled, baring down on him. Harry opened and closed his mouth, still distracted and looking at Snape as though he were some alien creature.

"I found him in the wardrobe," Remus said now, rapidly composing himself. Harry could tell by the look in his eye as he glanced at him that he would never know what Remus had been about to say before Snape interrupted them. Harry could just strangle the sallow bastard.

"The _wardrobe_?" Snape said, raising an eyebrow at Remus then turning an ugly grimace of confusion to Harry. "You mean to tell me the entire Order was set on alarm because you left like playing _Hide. And. Seek?_ "

"Now, Severus," Remus warned gently but firmly. But Snape only sneered at Harry, apparently too disgusted to insult him further. He turned his demanding look on Remus.

"He's your bloody responsibility, Lupin," Snape said, speaking as though Harry were not even in the room, which irked Harry beyond words. "Can you not even keep up with him? Can you not impose some _discipline_?"

"Yes, Severus," Remus began, drawing himself up. Harry could detect a hint of the old sureness in his voice. "He is my responsibility. Not yours. And as such, I ask that you leave me to see to it. You're advice, though duly noted, is neither requested nor desired. However, if you'd like to feel useful, I suggest you go and inform Albus that Harry has been found and will be coming downstairs directly to explain himself."

Snape glared at Remus but did not shoot back any snarky retort, which frankly shocked Harry. With a final, disgusted glance, Snape muttered, "We're all going to die," before he turned on his heels and disappeared, robes cracking behind him. Harry watched him go, still thunderstruck, before turning back to Remus. But the man only regarded Harry for a moment, as with deep regret, and followed Snape out of the door, motioning for Harry to follow.


	8. The Observed of All Observers

Harry followed Remus down the stairs toward his certain doom. He could hear voices all the way from the third floor landing. Almost every member of the Order he knew of, as well as several others he'd never seen before, were gathered downstairs, spilling out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Harry doubted the house had been so busy or so full in decades. Rather than baying for his blood, however, a collective cry of relief rose when Harry and Remus appeared on the final landing, and the news of his arrival was relayed loudly throughout the crowd like a several-voiced echo sounding down the hall.

Harry had never seen so many adoring, upturned faces and he paused on the third step to the last, amazed, feeling like a messiah surveying his disciples. With so many eyes upon him, Harry became keenly aware that he was, although he had just spent unknown hours in a packed wardrobe, still not fully dressed. Though, he was too caught off-guard by the few strange looks he was fetching, which went beyond happy relief to a kind of admiration (though Harry couldn't remember doing anything so very admirable) to feel entirely uncomfortable. Actually, it was rather thrilling, a very new sensation, and one that was abruptly dampened when he caught sight of Snape's cool, critical stare from the shadows behind the open kitchen door. Snape's look made him feel naked, even more so than he actually was, and Harry suddenly recalled how chilly the air of the house was. He shivered.

Snape crossed his arms disdainfully but the pale, stringy blond witch beside him, who leaned in now to whisper in Snape's ear, did not appear nearly so disapproving. She stared openly at Harry, and there was something a bit sly in her look. Harry passed his hand over his chest unconsciously as though he could feel her eyes rake over him like feather tips.

As Harry returned her gaze wonderingly, Dumbledore appeared striding swiftly to the fore. The crowd parted for him, apparently intuitively as all eyes were still locked on Harry. "Thank heavens," Harry heard him breathe as he approached the foot of the stair. Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard in the world, gazed reverently up at Harry. All this did little to banish Harry's sense of unreality. He stared at the Headmaster as if he were an apparition, looked out at them all as though at a congregation of phantoms.

"Harry," he heard Remus prompt him softly from somewhere beside him, lightly taking his elbow. Harry allowed himself to be led to the kitchen on Dumbledore's heels, his eyes sweeping almost unseeing over the veritable sea of people through which he passed. They seemed slightly grotesque to him, like the smiling faces on funhouse walls.

It seems the entire throng had emptied into the hallway upon Harry's arrival with the exception of Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-eye Moody, and Arthur Weasley. They were gathered at the far end of the table and almost tripped over themselves to greet him. Kingsley stood to the side and merely nodded smilingly at Harry, but Mr. Weasley rushed past the others to stand directly before him. "Good Lord," he sighed. "It's so good to see you're all right, Harry," he smiled, taking Harry by the shoulders and hastily inspecting him as if to assure himself Harry was indeed still in one piece.

"Back away from the boy, Arthur. Give 'im some air," Mad-eye called gruffly from somewhere behind him, nonetheless clip-clopping over to station himself in the exact same position Mr. Weasley had just relinquished. Moody studied him distrustfully, prodding him here and there, and Harry threw him a disgruntled look and moved his arms to shield his ribs from further assault. "Say," Moody called over his shoulder to the others. "Just how do we know this is the _real_ Potter? Looks a bit suspicious to me," he grunted under his breath, his magic eye sweeping up and down Harry while his normal one squinted Harry in the eye. "Thought he was scrawnier than this," he added with another prod. Harry's brow furrowed in offence. "And I never knew the boy to have a penchant for _nudity_. If you ask me, we should-"

"Oh _come off it_ , Mad-eye," Tonks interrupted, elbowing the former Auror aside. "Wotcher, Harry!" she grinned, hitting him playfully in the arm. "Gave us a run there. Where've you been hiding, anyway?" Harry felt like objecting that he hadn't _been_ hiding really, but that would have been something of a lie wouldn't it? Harry was a little overwhelmed by all this attention and wondered if the entire Order was going to be paraded in front of him, one by one, to poke and shake him to their satisfaction. Thankfully, however, Dumbledore dismissed everyone before Harry could sustain any more bruises, requesting that only Remus and (most unfortunately) Snape remain behind. As the others filed out, throwing him happy waves (or in Moody's case suspicious glances) Harry was seized by Mrs. Weasley and almost forcibly seated at the table.

"Now you be sure to drink this all down, Harry dear," she said, setting a cup of steaming tea before him. She felt of his brow and generally fretted over him (Dear gods, Albus, he's so very pale! And he's clammy all over, just _feel_ of his skin) before she too was ushered outside with the others.

"I cannot understand this commotion," Snape snarled, huffily snatching up the teapot from the table in front of Harry and setting it, almost violently, on the counter. "He was in a _wardrobe_ for crying out loud! You'd think he was snatched from the icy grips of Death itself."

"Severus," Dumbledore said calmly. "We are all merely relieved to find he is indeed safe. We might easily have not been so fortunate." Snape rolled his eyes as if to say 'Oh, yes. He's alive. How _fortunate_.' "Let us not make too light of the situation until we've heard what Harry has to say." Snape snorted and stalked moodily to the darkest corner of the room, but Harry could still feel his glower, even if he could no longer see it.

The tea did indeed help, and Remus and Dumbledore sat patiently on either side of Harry as he finished it. When he had regained his bearings, Harry recounted, with many furtive glances at Remus (whom Harry thought appeared far too calm considering their recent encounter) all that had happened in the wardrobe. He wondered if Snape would be placated to hear why he was there for so long in the first place or if he would be disgusted further. Dumbledore listened thoughtfully as Harry described the strange conversation with the intruding voice. Finally, Harry admitted the burning in his scar when he woke and was struck by a sharp pang of guilt on seeing the shocked and dismayed expression this elicited from Remus. Surely, if he'd know of it he'd never have allowed Harry to delay him on his way to alert Dumbledore. Though he felt slightly ashamed about the omission, Harry couldn't say he quite regretted it. So many things seemed to click into place as a result of Remus' confession, even if it hadn't exactly gifted Harry with peace of mind.

But with that admission, Harry concluded his narrative, feeling that what had transpired after between himself and Remus had no bearing on the pertinent situation and was no one's business but their own.

The tale was short and surprisingly easy to share, yet all three men seemed deeply affected by it. Dumbledore leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands in his lap, lightly tapping the tips of his index fingers together as he thought. Harry knew that behind his placid expression the Headmaster's mind was working furiously. Remus stared intently at his own hand lying before him on the table. Even Snape had been drawn from the shadows to fix Harry with a pensive though otherwise innocuous look.

"Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, waking from his thoughts. It was all that needed to be said. Snape nodded once, curtly, and glided swiftly and soundlessly across the room toward some errand only fully understood by the two men. He slipped out of the door into the buzz of the hallway which momentarily aggravated the weighty stillness of the kitchen before Snape closed the door securely behind him again. The quiet made Harry anxious. Were they upset with him? They both looked so...sober.

"Professor," he ventured softly, addressing Dumbledore. "I'm sorry to have upset everyone." And Harry was sincerely contrite that so many obviously important people had dropped everything and rushed to this godforsaken house simply because he was meditating in a wardrobe.

"Oh, do not apologise, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly. "I'm afraid all this commotion is my fault. We should have performed a more thorough search of the house. But you see, when you were not immediately found, it was rather hastily assumed you were no longer on the premises." This allayed Harry's guilt somewhat. "It is indeed understandable that you sought a moment of solitude," Dumbledore continued. "Remus' news was, no doubt, quite a shock to you. However, I ask that, from now on, you not wander off alone. In fact, I must insist that you be in the presence of another at all times, at least while you still remain here at Grimmauld Place."

Great. Now they thought he needed a babysitter.

"One of the reasons being," he went on, "is that your disappearance was not the only call for alarm tonight." Harry was a little shocked. In a way, he was relieved he had not been the sole cause of this mess, but at the same time had been a little intoxicated by the thought that he _might_ have been, that _he_ merited such a reaction. Snape's insistence that he was merely a prop had left him questioning his worth.

"What's happened?" he asked, wondering if he really wanted to know.

"The dementors have completely abandoned Azkaban," Dumbledore informed him plainly with no prelude. Harry grew wide-eyed. "I knew it was inevitable, however I had hoped it would not come so soon. It appears Voldemort is growing in influence, and he shall undoubtedly continue to do so, even without the aid of some of his most prized soldiers."

"Without his best soldiers?" Harry asked hopefully. "So the Death Eaters didn't escape with the dementors?"

"Well, it cannot be said that the dementors escaped, per se. The only thing holding them to Azkaban was the promise of a permanent supply of helpless subjects on which to feed. Apparently, Voldemort offered them something much more enticing. Mad or emotionally ruined prisoners are not nearly as appealing as fresh prey and fresh fear, with the freedom to kiss at will those unsuspecting victims of Voldemort's designs. But to answer your question, Harry. No. They did not escape. Not all of them. The ministry responded quickly and was able to rectify the situation somewhat. Dementors can be driven away with a Patronus but not necessarily contained. Unarmed Wizards, on the other hand, are an entirely different matter."

Harry wanted to ask, if not _all_ the Death Eaters had escaped, then who exactly did? But what did it matter really? The only Death Eater Harry was concerned with was Bellatrix, and she hadn't been in Azkaban.

"The situation was not nearly as dire as it could have been. However, coupled with your apparent disappearance, the Order was a bit anxious and rushed to the conclusion that something unfortunate might have happened to you, hence the gathering here tonight."

"But," Harry reasoned, hoping he didn't sound impertinent, "how could it? I mean, if you're the Secret Keeper, the house is totally safe isn't it?"

"Nowhere is _entirely_ safe, Harry," Dumbledore gently corrected him. "I would think your recent experience in the wardrobe confirms that. There were several possibilities, one being that you had been lured out of Grimmauld Place somehow. Unfortunately, there is no place we can be certain of your safety so long as Voldemort still has access to your mind."

Harry was a little insulted. He'd fallen for that ploy before, yes. But he wasn't stupid enough to let it happen a second time. "What could possibly have drawn me out," he asked testily, "when all I care about, all I have _left_ , is right here?"

"We felt that may have been it exactly," Remus spoke up, for the first time since they had left his bedroom. Harry turned to him, nonplussed. The man had gone through an almost magical transformation. All signs of anxiety and timidity were utterly gone, and his gaze as he looked at Harry was strong and sure. Harry found this bothered him even more than Remus' previous demeanour. At least then he'd been acting sincerely. Now, Harry wasn't so sure. "Phineas overheard you this morning," Remus explained. Harry groaned. Maybe he should do to Phineas what Remus had done to Mrs. Black. "He said you told Ron this was your battle and yours alone, and that you were going to make sure you would never endanger your friends again."

"Well," Harry objected, "that's _quite_ an exaggeration. All I said was-"

"It was feared that you might have set out alone, thinking that you would remove any danger to us by removing yourself," Remus cut in. Urgently, "Harry, I can't insist enough that you do not pose any threat to anyone here. I need you to understand that _everyone_ involved with the Order is, and has always been, as well protected as is possible, and should something happen to any of us it is most assuredly _not_ your fault in any way." Harry was taken aback and swallowed uncomfortably, knowing Remus was answering the question put to him by Harry earlier, one Harry felt wretched for asking in the first place now that his fey mood had worn off. "If ever something unfortunate does happen," Remus continued adamantly, " _circumstance_ , Harry--circumstance brought about by Voldemort--is the only thing that is to blame."

Harry genuinely appreciated this reassurance and nodded his understanding, chest burning and eyes stinging. Remus blinked back a tear of his own and clasped Harry's shoulder. There was no reluctance at the contact whatsoever, and he squeezed it firmly. Though he still rather suspected it's sincerity, Harry found himself very grateful for Remus' show of confidence. He found he relied on it much more than he had thought.

"Yeah, I know," Harry said. And he had all along really, he now realised. "I know I wouldn't stand a chance against Voldemort by myself. I know if I ever left here on my own I'd only be captured and..." _And I know you'd come to rescue me like last time, and that would only put you in more danger._ But Harry couldn't bring himself to voice this. Remus and the Headmaster glanced at one another.

"To be honest, Harry," admitted Dumbledore. "When you were not found, capture was not our only concern." Harry looked between the two, puzzled.

"Harry," Remus began gently, picking up where Dumbledore left off, "I want you to promise me that you will never do anything to harm yourself."

For the umpteenth time that night, Harry was shocked. "Harm myself?"

"If you ever feel despondent, if you ever feel overwhelmed by everything that is happening, I want you to come to one of us so we can talk things through. I apologise for my recent behaviour, and I want you to know I'm always here for you should you need me. As is Albus."

"Never think you are alone in this, Harry," Dumbledore confided. "Never think there is nowhere to turn. Understand, we still hold the advantage. There is always cause for hope."

"We care about you very much, Harry," Remus said now, "and we don't want to see you hurting, no matter the nature of that hurt."

Harry was overcome and for a while couldn't speak. He'd never considered hurting himself. Did he really give off the impression that he might? "So," he managed to force past the knot in his throat. "You don't think I'm just...a prop? I'm more than just bait to you, and you aren't just keeping me alive for the sake of the mission?" It was an almost cruel thing to say, but he hadn't been able to help himself. He _needed_ to hear Snape's taunts contradicted.

"Do try to have some patience with Professor Snape," Dumbledore begged gently. Harry gawked at him. How did he know those were Snape's sentiments? "We all sometimes say things in the heat of the moment that perhaps we do not mean." Harry had a hard time believing Snape hadn't meant every hissed syllable. "Trust your own heart," Dumbledore continued as if in answer to that thought. "If you know in your heart something is true or untrue, then there is nothing anyone can say to you to hurt you in that way."

Harry knew in his heart _that_ was not entirely true, though he understood Dumbledore's meaning. Harry nodded and sighed shakily. "You don't have to worry about me," he said, smiling weakly. "I'd never do anything to...hurt myself. Not intentionally. I'm not that selfish," he added. _Despite what Snape might insist._

Harry thought this statement might have relieved the two, but they simply nodded their appreciation, still looking rather tense. "It's good to hear you say that, Harry," Remus said. "As there's something I've been waiting to tell you because I was worried about how you might handle it." Harry's small smile faded and his heart skipped a beat. He didn't like the sound of this at all. What could conceivably be the matter now? He was fast running out of possible tragedies. Harry's warm fuzzy feeling was rapidly ebbing away, replaced by an increasing dread.

"At first, I hadn't wanted to ruin your birthday," Remus explained hesitantly. "And at the time, we weren't sure of all the implications. We wanted to wait until the situation was fully resolved. Afterwards, well, I felt you had enough to consider. But when you weren't found for our session tonight, I thought perhaps I'd made a mistake in that; that the news--should it have come from someone else, someone you weren't close to--might have been enough to...nudge you over the edge."

Harry was _certain_ he wouldn't like what Remus was about to say, though wished he would just out with it already. He began to shift in his chair restlessly, looking to Remus to continue, but it was Dumbledore who spoke.

"As you might recall, Harry, when you arrived I asked if anything had happened that you wanted to share. My reason was, shortly before your arrival, your owl Hedwig appeared on the front steps."

"Hedwig?" Harry interjected. "I've not seen her for days. I was beginning to worry. Has she been here the whole time? Where is she, can I see her?" Harry was babbling, he knew it. He was trying to ignore the gnawing sense that he already knew the answers to these questions. Remus winced slightly.

"When she arrived she was very badly injured," he explained. "She had no wounds, but she did have several broken bones. Her wings were unharmed, which was undoubtedly no mere stroke of luck. Still, it was a miracle she made it here at all."

"She's alright...isn't she?" Harry stuttered, panic rising in his voice. He suddenly had a hard time drawing breath. "You helped. You fixed her. She's _okay,_ " he said loudly as if his insistence could make it so. The two of them only looked at Harry remorsefully.

"I am sorry, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry began shaking his head.

"Understand, we did all we could," Remus averred.

No. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. They'd _had_ their sappy, touching moment. Things were _supposed_ to be okay now, damn it. They were all supposed to smile and hug and go to bed feeling all warm and happy, with a sense that everything had been resolved. This wasn't right! This was against the damned _rules_!

Harry grimaced and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He didn't feel like crying really. He just...Gods, he didn't even know what he felt like doing. Maybe laughing. Long and hard and joylessly. He even began to. Remus touched his arm consolingly. Did he think those were sobs?

"As I said, we weren't sure of the implications. When you didn't arrive right away but Hedwig did, and in such a state, we worried she wasn't the only owl accosted and that the portkey had been found. We didn't even consider that any of the other packages might have been tampered with. After you finally appeared but said you sensed nothing out of the ordinary, we thought perhaps she had been injured after leaving Privet Drive. It was only some time later, when the Ministry was alerted to your cousin's death, that we were able to put everything together."

Harry lowered his hand and looked blankly at Remus. Was he saying Dudley's death could have been avoided? But Harry didn't care about this explanation. He didn't care about Dudley or the Ministry or the other owls. Harry looked about him, helplessly, seeing nothing at all. "I ignored her," he said in a dead voice. "She tried to tell me something was wrong. She clicked her beak and made a fuss. But I just thought she wanted attention. I thought..." He trailed off. Remus reached out to console him again.

"Harry-"

"Don't touch me!" Harry snapped, rising to his feet and away from Remus so quickly it toppled his chair. He took a deep breath and, slightly more civilly, said, "Please. Not right now. Don't touch me." Harry suddenly felt so very tired. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see these people. He didn't want to talk. For a moment he considered how ironic that was, seeing as an hour ago he was heartbroken that Remus wouldn't touch or look at him. Now, all he wanted was to be left alone.

"I didn't say a _word_ to her," Harry went on, growing more  angry; whether at the situation or just himself, he wasn't entirely sure. "I watched her fly away and I was _glad_ about it. Because I was feeling sulky and I didn't want to be bothered," he spat. _I'm not that selfish, am I? Merlin's beard, I am full of crap._

Dumbledore looked deeply concerned and rose from his chair to approach him. Somehow, Harry couldn't bring himself to be as waspish to Dumbledore as he had been to Remus. He didn't say a word, he only fumed as the Headmaster stroked his back comfortingly as though literally working to the surface all those emotions Harry was trying so desperately to repress. Damn the man! Harry didn't want to be sad. He wanted to be angry. It felt so good being angry, and he was so accustomed to it by now.

"It's all right, Harry," Dumbledore whispered. "There's nothing shameful about what you're feeling. Cry if you want. It's perfectly natural."

"No," Harry tried to refuse, but it came out more as a whine and a tear was already sliding down his cheek as if to spite him. "I _don't_ want to. I'm not a child," he insisted, lip quivering.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Remus asked, rising himself now. Harry looked up at him through his lashes as if the answer should be obvious. Grown men don't cry over losing their pets.

"It wasn't like she w-was my family or anything. Or my best f-friend," he hiccuped.

"What difference does that make?" Remus replied with a gentle scowl, laying his hand on Harry's shoulder again, and this time Harry allowed it. "The point is you cared about her."

"It takes courage to feel, Harry," Dumbledore said, drawing Harry's attention so that he looked him in the eye. "It takes a stronger man to confront his feelings and allow them to run their natural course than it does one to hide from them and deny they exist. It takes a _wiser_ man to cry. Never fear your feelings, Harry. Your capacity to feel is your greatest strength and, in his inability to do so, Voldemort's greatest weakness. Remember that."

Dumbledore's gaze was so steady, his words so sure, that for a moment Harry was tempted to believe him. He decided to pretend for that moment that he truly did. Because now that the flood had begun, Harry couldn't stop it. He turned to look at Remus' kind, encouraging face through his film of tears, and his lip was still quivering, still stubbornly trying to hold back the deluge. But when Remus opened his arms to him, Harry's last resistance crumbled and he fell into them, tugging at Remus' lapel. His knees gave way and he ended up dragging Remus to the floor with him. Remus stroked his hair soothingly as Harry cried on his shoulder, releasing the tears he'd so very long denied: for Cedric, for Sirius, for Hedwig, and for himself. He abandoned himself to them, and a part him wondered why he had ever sworn off this wonderful catharsis. Maybe when he was spent he would remember, but at the moment, his previous logic escaped him. Right now, it didn't matter. Nothing did, except that he not stop.


	9. T'have Seen What I've Seen; See What I See

It was late when Harry finally pulled himself from Remus' lap, limbs stiff and heavy, feeling as though he were a marble statue suddenly gifted with the power of movement. He was sad to have to do so. Remus' embrace was warm and comforting, like a breeze on the face of a weary traveller that carries on it the scent of home. And there in Remus' arms, the concept of home didn't seem any more imaginary or impossible than it had in Sirius' wardrobe. For a while, Harry had forgotten where he ended and Remus began, he was so completely at ease. But as soon as he began to draw away, Harry felt the cool air rush in between them like a cruel knife, cutting them again into two separate beings. Remus looked as exhausted as Harry felt, but Harry could see in his eyes he would have willingly sat there until morning with Harry if he thought that was what the young man needed. Though that idea had tempted Harry, he decided it wouldn't have been fair to Remus. They'd sat for far too long already, an hour at least after Harry's tears had been spent and he was so weak because of it that he could not even will himself to hold his uncomfortable weight off of his guardian. They would both pay for the embrace come morning. Harry was already feeling the promise of it. His afterglow of catharsis, that weightless indifference to the sensory that comes from such intense purgation, was fading, and he was finally becoming aware of the bruises on his knees and shins screaming for relief from the hardness of the floor and from his awkward position. He could only imagine what Remus must be feeling.

Slowly, the two unwound themselves from each other but, before they rose, Remus took Harry's face in his hands and searched his eyes as though asking him if he was certain he was ready to part. Harry lay his hand lightly over Remus' and gave him a small, sure smile, and Remus nodded. In that way, without the necessity of words, they bid each other goodnight. Harry shuffled from the kitchen, glancing back at Remus as he passed through the door. And that image Harry hoped to carry with him always, to ever after be the one his memory offered up when he thought of the man. Remus stood like a sentinel, as venerable and weathered, as patient and indestructible as the walls of Hogwarts itself. And he was now every bit the symbol of sanctuary that that old castle had always represented for Harry. With a last, grateful smile, Harry turned from him and slipped through the door.

The hall was deserted, though Harry could hear stirring in many other parts of the house near at hand. Before he reached the stair, a few wizards Harry did not know emerged from one darkened doorway to cross the hall into another. When they caught sight of Harry they froze, whispered conversation dying on their lips, and they smiled at him in that inane, almost unconscious way people do when looking on something they revere. Harry sighed and shook his head, turning to ignore them and continue up the steps, but something made him pause. When he glanced back down the hall, he noticed the gathering had all scurried on save one. A stringy-looking witch with pale hair and eyes was still staring at him. It was the same one who had whispered to Snape, the one with the look that tickled. Harry noticed she had not smiled like the others had, though she seemed no less interested in him. Although he sensed no animosity from her, her blatant attention unnerved him. Harry gave her a crooked, uncertain smile and continued up the stairs, not waiting for her response.

When he reached his room, Harry eased the door open and found Hermione asleep in Ron's bed, fully clothed and loosely covered with a blanket. Ron himself was slouched in the chair by the bureau, curled in a sheet. Harry wondered how long they had waited for him before finally succumbing to exhaustion. It was touching to have friends so devoted. But at the same time, their loyalty unsettled Harry. He knew that, because of it, he was indeed a danger to them, despite what Remus had insisted. Either of them would throw themselves in harm's way at a moment's notice for his sake. Just as Sirius had.

Harry shook his head and pushed the thought aside. It was too late and he was too tired for any more of its kind that night. He'd worry on it tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted was to undress and slip beneath his own sheets, which he did. But sleep did not come easily, even now. Or rather, Harry still fought it, worried what might happen if he dared. He tossed and turned for several minutes. Despite his cleansing moment with Remus, Harry could not shake his sense of foreboding. He still felt...watched. Harry opened his eyes with a snap.

Ron was awake and staring at him. Harry sighed his relief.

"All right there, Harry?" Ron whispered, casting a quick glance at Hermione to be sure he hadn't disturbed her. Harry gave him a weak smile and nodded. Ron returned it. "Dumbledore came up and told us you were okay."

"Then why'd you ask?" Harry whispered back but playfully. Ron shrugged.

"S'pose I just wanted to hear it from you. You don't always tell them everything, y'know. So you are really all right, aren't you?" he asked again with a note of worry.

"Ron. I'm fine," Harry assured him. There was a long silence, and Harry just almost nodded off.

"I heard about Hedwig. And your cousin," Ron said, jolting Harry from his doze. But Harry didn't know how to respond to that, so he just didn't. "I thought that was why you'd disappeared," Ron went on, but he was no longer looking at Harry. "I thought you went to find the ones who'd done it. I thought you went off and left me behind." He paused, then added, "You can't do that, you know. Promise you won't go after them without me." Harry knew he could never--would never--promise anything like that. He pretended to be asleep, keeping his eyes open only enough to see Ron's blurry form through his lashes. When he wasn't answered Ron looked over and sighed, and Harry thanked his lucky stars his friend was so gullible.

"You can't let them get you, Harry," Ron said now as though he knew Harry couldn't hear him or else wouldn't have spoken. "You're my Best Mate. Don't know what I'd do without you."

 _You'd do just fine_ , Harry thought. _Probably be better off_.

"If they ever hurt you. If they _ever_..." Ron hissed softly. "I'd kill them. I just would," he finished plainly and resolutely. Harry really did close his eyes at that, and he swallowed a worried sigh. Ron watched Harry 'sleep' for a while longer before adjusting himself in his chair and going back to sleep himself.

Unfortunately, Harry would not be able to do the same for some time. As much as he hated to admit it, Snape had been right. And Harry resolved never again to share with his friends all that happened to him or all that he discovered. Because no matter what he tried to say or do to dissuade them, should they Harry was in danger, nothing would stop them from involving themselves in it. Harry didn't have a choice, he _had_ to face these perils. But he'd be damned if he'd drag his best friends into them with him.

 _Let them keep their lives_ , he reasoned, _their homes and families...their innocence_. At last, Harry felt he was indeed the best suited for his destined role, but not because of some prophecy or latent power. Unlike his friends, Harry had nothing to lose.


	10. I Was the More Deceived

Despite Ron's disturbing, one-sided conversation the night before, Harry woke the next day surprisingly refreshed and perhaps all the more determined because of it. His foreboding he now accepted as a condition of life, but otherwise he felt cleansed and capable of tackling any task they set before him. He was allowed to sleep in again, but when he finally rose sometime around noon, he was fed and immediately sent to work. And he was more than ready.

McGonagall turned up that afternoon to begin her series of lessons with Harry. She was adequately impressed by his newfound fervour and informed him that she expected it to carry over into her classroom when term started. She began by teaching him how to transfigure knives, arrows, swords, and other 'common' weapons into things like feather dusters and silk pillows. Harry didn't do too terribly bad, but his silk came out more like burlap and his feather dusters...well, they had a lot of work to do. All the transformations were done on stationary objects. The trick, she said, was performing them while the weapons were being hurled at Harry with deadly force. Harry did not look forward to those practices.

That day he also finally began his sessions with Remus. Though Harry thought it may have been awkward after all that had passed between them recently, he found himself very pleasantly surprised. Harry was really very comfortable with Remus, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Remus' attitude was light and friendly, and his lesson on part humans was every bit as enjoyable as his Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons had been those years before at Hogwarts. Harry was fascinated by the subject and they studied everything from the diet of hags and the mating habits of banshees to the evolution of Warlocks from antiquity to present day.

"There was an excellent text here in the library on the traits and lifestyles of vampires," Remus frowned, looking through the stack of books from which he wanted Harry to study. "Do ask Hermione to share it with you," he said with a knowing wink.

Their session lasted a full hour longer than anticipated and might have stretched on longer had Dumbledore not arrived to give Harry his Occlumency lesson in Snape's stead. The Potions Master's only offer of guidance to Dumbledore was to inform Harry that, despite what he had said before, meditation would not be necessary and Harry should cease immediately (assuming he ever consciously began). Though his lesson with the Headmaster was considerably less nerve-wracking than it might have been with Snape, and though Harry _certainly_ didn't miss the other man's company, Harry began to understand Snape and Dumbledore's point about the effectiveness of their respective teachings. Dumbledore was patient and took a moment to outline the theory behind the magic being used in hopes it would help Harry better understand and so better combat it. But to be quite honest, it was mostly over Harry's head, and he would have much rather had his wand out as he seemed to learn more easily from a practical, hands-on approach. Ultimately, Harry felt there was little accomplished during the lesson, and he grudgingly conceded to himself that perhaps Snape _was_ his only hope of mastering this all-important skill.

Harry continued this routine for the next week, alternating between McGonagall, Flitwick, Remus, the Headmaster, and even occasionally Hagrid. Because of his hectic schedule, Harry saw little of Ron and Hermione. In a way, this relieved him. When he did see them he was, of course, polite and friendly; but the contents of their conversations were superficial. A chasm was slowly growing between him and his friends. And though it pained him somewhat, he really thought it was for the best and did little to mend the rift. As far was Harry was concerned, the less they had to do with him the better for them.

Hermione, as intuitive as always, seemed to understand Harry's distance and respected it. But Harry could tell it was taking its toll on Ron. Sure he and Hermione had a blossoming relationship to see to (the depth and nature of which Harry was still not entirely certain), but Harry knew it couldn't stand substitute for best friend. Hermione wasn't exactly keen on Quidditch, or Fred and George's latest products, or any of the myriad of other things boy their age took interest in. Harry could just imagine Ron sitting alone in their room while Hermione busied herself in the library or chatted with Ginny, bouncing a Quaffle off the far wall and telling Pigwidgeon (when he could steal him from his little sister) all about the Cannons' new Chaser. Phineas, should he not be sleeping through it all, probably knew more about that team and the game of Quidditch itself than he could ever care to know. Harry kept telling himself it was all for the best and avoided Ron's lonely, hopeful glances when they met in the halls or at meals. Ron wouldn't be able to understand it, but Harry cared about him far too much to be his friend just now.

A week before term was to begin, Remus and Mrs. Weasley stormed Diagon Alley, fetching all four of them their school things and Harry all the necessities, including, most importantly, many new clothes. It wasn't that Mrs. Weasley had bad taste, she simply didn't have a _boy's_ taste. She did, however, have an eye for colour and coordination, and with Remus' valuable input into the selection, Harry found himself in possession of a very decent wardrobe, indeed. He now had several pairs of nice trousers and fetching jumpers that complimented his complexion and build better than he could have imagined. Having always worn either Dudley's hand-me-downs or else a few hastily and thoughtlessly purchased outfits, Harry never knew how much difference the right colour and cut could make in one's appearance. He also had a number of comfortable t-shirts bearing Quidditch references or the names of popular Wizarding bands he wasn't familiar with. (Though Tonks assured him they were all very savvy.)

The least welcome of his new acquisitions was Archimedes: the large, handsome tawny owl Remus had chosen for him. He was a fine bird, but Harry felt there could simply be no replacement for his beloved Hedwig.

As the term inched closer, Harry's schedule relaxed a bit as the professors were distracted by preparations at Hogwarts. Harry continued his studies independently, seeing his instructors whenever they were available. It was a lazy Tuesday evening when Harry found himself in the upstairs bedroom which had unofficially been designated as his private classroom, waiting for Dumbledore who was expected but was, uncharacteristically, quite late. Harry had spent over an hour there already, idly tracing the fading patterns on the wallpaper and nosing under sheets and in cabinets. Finally, he stationed himself at the window, peeking out of the dusty drapes and watching as the day crawled sluggishly to hide behind the horizon. As the last speck of the sun's neon disk blinked out of view, Harry's mind turned to dinner and bed. But even as he resolved to give the lesson a miss and head downstairs, Harry felt a subtle draft stir the still, stale air, and he made to pull the curtains closed before turning toward the door to greet the Headmaster. Harry barely heard the whispered spell that sent him crashing to his knees and plunged him into a spiral of sharp images.

 _Privet Drive on Dudley's sixth birthday when Harry had been given rice crackers instead of cake; his rotund cousin cackling through his icing at Harry's longing expression_.

_Resting against a stall in Myrtle's bathroom, watching the dust drifting in swirls through the rays of sunlight through the window like the doubts that swam through his mind while Hermione brewed Polyjuice within._

_Hagrid showing them how to feed flobberworms._

_His first glimpse of Snape, glowering at him from the staff table during the sorting his first year at Hogwarts, not understanding the stranger's dislike yet feeling a mutual distaste rising in him as well._

Harry woke on the floor, curtains pulled down in a heap atop him, pain shooting through his knees and up his legs where he had struck the floorboards. The first thing he was able to focus on as he rolled his aching head to the side was a pair of immaculate, pointed-toe boots clicking to a halt only a few feet from him. He followed the slender, black-clad legs upward until his eyes came to rest on Professor Snape's familiar, snide expression. Harry groaned. The man had been gone so long he had almost forgotten how much he loathed him.

"I see you have learned precious little in my absence," Snape said, looking down his hawkish nose at him. "Not that I had hoped for much else."

Harry scowled at him and pushed himself shakily to his throbbing knees. "That wasn't fair," he complained to the buttons on Snape's waistcoat. "You didn't even give me a chance to-"

"Am I mistaken, or did the word _fair_ just pass your lips?" Snape snorted, making no move to help Harry to his feet. "You, of all people, should know that fairness is a farcical concept best reserved for fairytales and children's stories. We live in the real world, Mr. Potter. _Legilimens_." Harry was still teetering on one knee, midway through his struggle to a standing position, when he was sent crashing back to the floor.

_Aunt Marge floating near the ceiling._

_Winky in the Top Box at the Quidditch World Cup._

_Draco as a ferret._

"Damn it!" Harry grimaced, rolling to his back, pain shooting through his elbow and side as well now.

"Do you think the _Dark Lord_ is going to be so gracious as to allow you to draw your wand or even gain your bearings if he can prevent it?" Snape said nastily. "Get up!" he barked, pulling his wand back and drawing breath to cast the spell again. Harry plunged his hand into his robes and withdrew his own wand, firing off a disarming spell before the word could pass Snape's lips. He'd been tempted to cast something more unpleasant. About half a dozen good jinxes came to mind. _Merlin's beard_ but Snape had come back in a foul mood.

The man gave a kind of growl low in his throat. " _That's_ more like it," he snarled, his harsh tone belying the praising words. As he stalked over to retrieve his wand, Harry scrambled to his feet, wand prone on the stooped Potions Master. But Snape only straightened and stared daggers at Harry as the young man brushed the grey dirt from his new trousers and righted his clothes, running his free hand through his hair to remove it from his eyes. Both of them were breathing heavily as if meaning to blast their animosity toward the other with each exhalation. Though Snape's wand lay slack in the hand at his side, Harry refused to relax his guard.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" Harry asked sharply.

"You think it wasn't?" Snape replied, lips tensing to near invisibility. "The Dark Lord is plotting your demise, traipsing through your thoughts and memories like a housewife _doing the daily shop_ , and you think my teaching is unnecessary?" he hissed.

"I didn't mean the Occlumency! I meant you sneaking up on me when you know I'm not advanced enough to defend myself," Harry snapped angrily. "And stop making it sound like I've sent Voldemort an invitation or something."

"Your refusal to cooperate with me is just as good _as_ an invitation to the Dark Lord."

"Who says I'm not cooperating," Harry objected, growing increasingly aggravated. "Listen _,_ just because you're in a shite mood after visiting with Lord Thingy doesn't mean-"

" _What_ did-you-just-say?" Snape hissed, his hand tightening on his wand until his knuckles whitened and his eyes glinting dangerously.

Harry closed his mouth with a snap. What had he said? He was so irritated at Snape the words had just tumbled out. Bollocks. This was bad and Harry knew it. He started to stammer some weak apology when he felt the spell, whatever it was, strike him in the chest like a fist, knocking him backwards and stealing his breath. He blinked up at Snape, unable to speak and so waving his hands in a silent plea for ceasefire.

"I have warned you before not to treat mention of the Dark Lord with such disrespect," Snape spat, leaning down over Harry. "Do you think this is a game?" he demanded, taking Harry's shirtfront in his fist. "Do you think we're simply playing _tag_ with the most powerful and ruthless Dark Wizard to ever walk the Earth? You _naive_ , impervious little..." Snape literally bit his tongue, futilely trying to reign in his temper. "Do you have any idea what he wants to _do_ to you?!"

"Yeah," Harry sputtered, finally finding his breath. As if he hadn't faced down Voldemort several times already, hadn't narrowly escaped death at his hands before. "I'm pretty sure the idea is to kill me. Though it looks like you're trying to beat him to it," he shot, looking down at his collar bunched in Snape's iron grip. The Potions Master gave him a particularly cold, ugly sneer and released him abruptly, flinging Harry away from him so that the back of Harry's head struck the floor.

He straightened slowly and brushed the front of his robes. "You should be so lucky," he spat.

Harry rubbed at his neck where his collar had chaffed him and propped himself on one elbow. "Look," he said. "I'm sorry for calling him that, alright?...Professor Snape?"

This seemed to placate Snape somewhat. He swept his eyes coolly over Harry's sprawled form before commanding him calmly and sneeringly to, "Get up... _Mr. Potter_." With a fair amount of relief and a tad of inner grumbling, Harry did as he was told. Snape waited until he was standing to continue. "Prepare yourself," he told him, raising his wand.

"But I've lost my wand," Harry said with a note of panic, eyeing Snape's and taking a small, tentative step away from it.

"And just what good do you think it would do you?" Snape asked as though wearied by Harry's simplicity. The young man's eyebrows knit and his bottom lip pouted in distress.

"If you don't think I can do this," he complained, "then why are we even bothering with-"

"You misunderstand my point," Snape drawled, casting Harry a withered look. "You are not preparing yourself against me. Ideally, you are preparing yourself against the Dark Lord. The attack will be internal. Your wand will be of no use to you. You must learn to rely on the strength of your mind alone to repel the attack."

"But you told me not to meditate," Harry argued. "I haven't been. So, I can't fight it without-"

"I know perfectly well what I told you. And I know perfectly well what I am doing. I'm the Master here remember? Now prepare yourself," he said, wand rising.

"No, wait!" Harry cried, but it was too late.

_The reptile house at the London Zoo._

_Cho sitting across from him beyond a veil of raining, pink, heart-shaped confetti._

_His parents smiling at him from within the Mirror of Erised._

"Fight it!" Snape shouted. "Now. _Again!_ "

_Remus sleeping on the Hogwarts Express._

_Cedric's shade asking him to return his body to Hogwarts_.

"Damn it, Potter. What did I tell you!" Snape growled angrily. Harry gazed up at him from the floor, his eyed glazed, desperate and dreading. "Again! Fight it."

"I can't!" Harry cried as Snape's wand cut through the air to cast again. The man halted.

"You _won't_. You must try," he said, preparing to continue through with the spell.

"No! I _can't,_ " Harry wailed. "Stop it! This...this is pointless," he shouted in frustration. "I can't _do_ this," he repeated despairingly to himself, rolling to his stomach to hide his face in his arms.

"Get up," Snape said firmly.

"No."

" _Excuse_ me?" said Snape, eyebrows rising incredulously.

"I told you, I can't do this!" Harry whined, not looking at him, not wanting to see the abusive smirk there. But it was true. Harry couldn't do this. He _wouldn't_. He wouldn't tolerate this anymore.

"So," Snape scoffed, " _This_ is the expectancy and rose of the fair state. The boy who aspired to train a juvenile army to do battle with the Dark Lord himself cannot even manage elementary Occlumency," he said with cold, jeering condescension. "That your godfather was the only one lost during that little crusade of yours is indeed most fortunate."

 _Gods_. Must he insist on turning the knife? Harry already felt wretched allowing Snape to see him like this. Did he look like he needed to be further wounded? What a _git_.

"You would consider Sirius dying fortunate," Harry spat venomously, peeking from the fold of his arm to glower at Snape. His despair was once again bubbling into a low fury. Snape only arched an eyebrow and sucked his tongue, perhaps thinking it unwise to out and out confirm the indictment. "You're enjoying this aren't you?" Harry said in a low voice, fixing him with a searing, suspicious look.

"Enjoying what exactly?" 

"Torturing me," said Harry, convinced of it now. Snape crossed his arms and rolled his eyes as if Harry's melodrama was causing him a headache.

"Circumstance requires that you learn this skill, and apparently _I_ am the only one qualified to see that you do so. I didn't exactly volunteer for this nightmarish undertaking with bubbling enthusiasm. I assure you that in no part of this arrangement do I find enjoyment, Mr. Potter." But Harry pushed himself to a sitting position and gave Snape a look that said he knew better and was offended that Snape would so insult his intelligence.

"Why won't you just admit it?" he challenged. "You're still bitter about what Sirius and my father did to you, but since they aren't around anymore you're taking it out on me. Admit it, you hated them."

"You can hardly blame me," Snape said strainedly through pursed lips. "You were in the Pensieve." Snape's features darkened as anger at the memory of Harry's trespass washed over him afresh. "You witnessed their cruelty."

"But _I_ didn't do those things to you!" Harry stressed, leaning forward and placing a hand on his breast to punctuate the statement. " _I've_ never done anything to you. Why? Why do you hate me?" he cried, desperation and a genuine desire to understand infecting the frustration in his voice. "Why have you _always_ hated me?" Harry's voice broke on those last words, but his gaze remained true. Snape's gaze was steady as well, and as cold and hard as stone in winter. After a silence so long Harry despaired of a response, the Potions Master answered him, his voice as stiff as his posture.

"It is true, Mr. Potter. I hated Black, and I _loathed_ your father." Harry was slightly taken aback. Though he knew it to be true already, that knowledge did little to dull the shock of hearing it spoken so bluntly. But Snape wasn't finished. Harry straightened and regarded him uncertainly "It's also true that I hate what I see of your father in you--which is far too much I might add--and I hate the dangerous influence that inheritance has had. I hate many things, Mr. Potter," Snape went on. "I hate continuously risking my life for an ungrateful whelp of a boy without the sense not to be shepherded, almost wistfully, into one _blatant_ trap after another. I _hate_ knowing that this behaviour is the result of the way you have been alternately sheltered or else left completely to your own devices your entire life with grossly impractical proportion and timing. I hate fate. And I hate necessity. I hate circumstance. But no, I do not hate you, Mr. Potter," Snape finished plainly.

Harry looked up at Snape's severe expression, at a loss for words, and the man heaved a sigh and shifted as though irritated. "Well," he said shortly, "I feel that is enough for one night. It's already quite late and I believe you have a train to catch in the morning. We shall continue this when you arrive at Hogwarts."

Harry opened his mouth to object that he wasn't finished talking about this, but Snape was already passing through the door, leaving so swiftly and silently he may as well not even have been corporeal. Harry remained on the floor and tucked his knees under his chin and hugged his legs. He sat there for some time, toying with the hem of the fallen drapes, pondering what Snape had just said and what exactly it might mean.


	11. When Sorrows Come They Come Not Single Spies

Mrs. Weasley woke them early the next day, popping in and out all morning in her usual imminent-departure induced frenzy, depositing the wash and reminding them to pack this or that. Harry and Ron loaded their trunks in near silence, always narrowly missing each other's wistful glances.

Harry had trouble focusing on the task at hand. He desperately wanted to talk about what Snape had said the evening before. It bothered him far more than he thought it might. It should have been a relief, shouldn't it? Snape didn't hate him after all. But Snape hating him (and him hating Snape) made things so simple. It was something he'd always taken for granted. Now Harry could no longer comprehend the man's behaviour toward him. When you cancelled out that element, it just didn't make sense. The ambiguity was even more unnerving than the thought that Snape's abuse was motivated by dislike. Besides, Harry was so comfortable not trusting the skulking, greasy Potions Master. Now Harry felt an obnoxious compulsion to look deeper, to try and _understand_ the intolerable git. It was so inconvenient.

As close as he now felt to Remus, Harry didn't feel this was the kind of thing he could share with him. After all, Remus had, by his passivity, contributed to the conflict between Snape, Sirius, and Harry's father. There was also a chance his guardian might confront Snape, and Harry certainly didn't want that to happen. Occlumency lessons would only become even more hellish.

What Harry needed was someone who would not judge or lecture him. What Harry needed was a best friend. Harry looked sheepishly over at Ron whose back was turned, adjusting the contents of his trunk. This wasn't, after all, information that could endanger him in any way. And besides, Harry dearly missed Ron. However, Ron seemed to have finally accepted his and Harry's estrangement, and it didn't seem right to Harry to launch into his doubts and theories as if nothing was different between them. Perhaps, when they were settled on the train, Harry would try to break the ice.

An hour before they were to be on the platform, the two boys hauled their trunks downstairs. Though neither of them spoke, Harry thought he could tell that Ron was just as excited as he was to finally be allowed to set foot outside of Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Weasley had breakfast waiting for them, but Harry still had to grab Archimedes, having been unable to handle his trunk and his new pet's cage both at once. Telling Ron he'd meet him in the kitchen, Harry bounded back up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he topped the last flight and swung himself by the bannister to turn into his room. In doing so, he almost collided with Remus.

"Harry," he said sunnily. "There you are. I was just looking for you."

"I was on my way to breakfast," Harry explained, eager to get to it. "I've just come to fetch Archimedes."

"Ah," Remus said, placing a hand on the small of Harry's back to lead him back down the stairs. "Don't worry. I'll be bringing your things separately, and I promise not to forget him."

Harry was a little apprehensive. The last time he'd left his things behind he'd never seen them again. "Our things aren't going on the train?" he asked.

"Well, _yours_ aren't," Remus explained.

"Am _I_ not going on the train?" Harry asked, growing confused.

"Oh yes, _you_ will, of course. But we're hoping to keep up the pretence that you are not. At least until we get you there and on your way," Remus said, pausing on the final landing. There he took in hand a bundle he'd had tucked under his arm which Harry had not previously noticed. "You'll be wearing this on the way to the platform," he said, handing the neatly folded square of silvery fabric to Harry. "It was Sirius'. He'd left it to me because, at the time, he knew you already had your father's. However, since that one has been lost, I'm sure Sirius would rather this come to you," he said solemnly.

Harry took the invisibility cloak from him and it unfolded in his hand. Though the fabric was so sheer and delicate it seemed spun from the very air itself, the garment weighed unusually heavy in Harry's hand. He watched it slide through his fingers like liquid silver, but its beauty was not Harry's concern.

Why hadn't it occurred to him before? Of course, his father's cloak had been destroyed with the rest of his belongings. Harry's stomach gave a lurch as he realised his photo album must have been lost, as well. The _only_ things he had to remember his parents by were gone forever. And all Harry had been concerned about was his Firebolt. Guilt curdled in the pit of Harry's gut.

"I want you to keep this on until you are seated and the train gets going, alright?" Remus asked, waking Harry from these thoughts. Harry nodded mutely, casting his eyes back down at the cloak. Remus lay a hand on his shoulder and nodded, then disappeared to continue his preparations.

Harry shuffled to the kitchen, too morose to join in the other's excited chatter. Mrs. Weasley set a plate before him, but Harry ended up only pushing his food around it, having no appetite now even for Mrs. Weasley's cooking. When it was time to set out, the students were corralled into the anteroom where they shuffled anxiously, flanked by Tonks and Mrs. Weasley, while Remus stepped outside to be sure the coast was clear.

"Alright," he said, ducking back in. "We're ready. The ministry has a car waiting for us a block up. Harry, under your cloak, please." Harry complied, pulling it tightly around him and then slipping to the end of the queue to stand by Ron. "No one is to talk to Harry or acknowledge his presence, understood? Harry, the same goes for you to the others, no talking."

"That shouldn't be hard," Harry heard Ron mutter under his breath beside him, still looking at the empty space at the front of the room where Harry had disappeared beneath the cloak. "We're to carry on as usual, then?"

Harry's foundering heart sank even lower. Ron must have been taking his distance far worse than he had thought. It was now apparent that he hadn't accepted the situation at all, he'd only become too bitter about it to try and remedy it any longer. Harry studied him from behind the shelter of his cloak, having the freedom to do so without the necessity of tact or pretence. Ron looked--well--angry. His features formed the slightest of scowls, and the restlessness Harry had guessed to be anticipation he now recognised to be discontent.

"Ready?" Remus called, hand on the doorknob. "Right. Let's go."

Harry might have thought he'd have felt liberated, strolling down the street after so many long days locked within the murky confines of Grimmauld Place. But the air was unusually chill for the time of year. Cold wind blasted him as if determined to strip the cloak from him, and the sunlight was too stark and intense for his unaccustomed eyes.

The car was indeed waiting for them, and Harry was the first one in. Remus opened the door for him under the pretence of depositing Pigwidgeon in the back seat while the others fussed with stowing their luggage in the trunk. Ron scooted in next, but when his legs bumped into Harry's, he inched back away from him unnecessarily far, as if Harry was something caustic to the touch.

Only Remus and Tonks actually accompanied them to the station, leaving Mrs. Weasley waving on the sidewalk. The girls chattered the whole way, but Ron only sat and smiled on cue whenever Hermione turned to him. Harry was rather glad he was forbidden to fraternise. He'd be afraid of what he might say. The ride was short, but Harry stewed the whole time, growing more irritated by Ron's attitude toward the situation the longer he thought about it.

Wasn't Harry entitled to some time to himself after all that had happened? Did Ron expect him to put off any of his many, important lessons just to chat with him about bludgers and dungbombs? So Harry didn't share _everything_ with Ron anymore. So he didn't spend every spare minute with him. Could Ron not understand how stressful the last weeks had been for Harry? He mulled but tried to keep his indignation to a minimum. After all, he _hadn't_ been fair to Ron lately, and it had been intentional. He'd just have to try and explain this to him, is all.

When they reached the platform everyone said their goodbyes, ignoring Harry, of course. He didn't think this would bother him; but as he looked at Remus, noting the kind crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiled at Ginny, the ones Harry'd come especially to delight in, he couldn't quite bear the thought of leaving this man he'd become so close to without some sort of farewell, despite that he would likely be seeing him in only a few days. Though he knew he wasn't supposed to, Harry slipped over to Remus and reached out to squeeze, firmly and affectionately, the hand hanging at Remus' side. The man gave the slightest, startled gasp but otherwise did an admirable job of hiding his surprise and, no doubt, his disapproval.

"Goodbye, Remus," Harry said, tip-toeing to whisper softly right into Remus' ear so no one else might hear, "I'll see you soon." Remus swallowed hard and smiled at Hermione.

"Take care," he said warmly in her direction, but Harry knew Remus was speaking to him.

As soon as they boarded, Ginny was dragged off by a gaggle of giggling friends and would not be seen again for quite some time. Harry followed Ron and Hermione down the corridors, narrowly missing collision with several students bounding up and down the train who couldn't give him room to pass as they, of course, didn't know he was even there. Hermione chose a compartment near the end of the train, and Harry was relieved to duck inside.

"Finally," Harry muttered, ready to be free of the cloak.

"Shh. Not yet. Not until we leave the station," Hermione reminded him quietly through the side of her mouth as she stowed her things in the overhead compartment. Harry sighed, none too quietly, and plopped into a seat. Hermione took a seat across from him and Ron the one beside her. He scooted in close and tried to take her hand, but Hermione blushed and cast a slightly embarrassed glance toward where she guessed Harry to be sitting. " _Ron,_ " she whispered, carefully pulling her hand back into her own lap. He looked wounded by the rejection and cast his own grumpy glance in Harry's direction. Ron crossed his arms and looked out the window while Hermione adjusted her robes and pretended not to notice his mood. The exchange rather worried Harry for some reason, and he gave Ron a sympathetic look; one he wished his friend could see.

Several people popped by: Dean and Seamus, Parvati, Ernie Macmillan, actually almost every member of DA with the exception of Cho and the traitorous Marietta. They all gave the same greeting of, "Hey, Ron. Hey, Hermione. Hey..." then searched the compartment, noting but not commenting on Harry's 'absence' before looking to Hermione. (Who looked so uncharacteristically nervous Harry thought she might give them away.) She successfully shooed them off before any questions could be asked. Harry couldn't tell if their expressions exuded relief or disquiet.

The warning whistle finally sounded, and moments later Luna Lovegood appeared looking, as usual, as though mildly sedated. She first drifted all the way past the compartment. But before they could utter a sigh of relief, she reappeared, back-pedalling so it looked as though she were on a conveyor belt. Her wide, unblinking eyes were prone on Hermione, who bit her lip anxiously.

"Yes. It is you," Luna said in a sing-song voice, apparently answering her own unspoken question as she slid open the door and entered.

"Oh. Hello, Luna," Hermione said politely. But Luna didn't seem to hear her. She was rotating like an item on a turnstile in a window shop display, searching the cabin.

"Harry isn't here," she said.

"Oh! Um. You know, I haven't seen him," Hermione stammered nervously. "I suppose he's running late," she lied. Just then the train gave a groan and started moving.

"Hmm," Luna said, "he's missed the train. How unfortunate," she added, teetering as the train swayed, almost sitting right on top of Harry. Hermione gasped and thrust out a hand to seize Luna by her robes and right her as Harry shrank to the corner of his seat. When the threat had passed, Luna looked down at Hermione's hand still clutching her robes and raised her eyebrows at her.

"Right," Hermione said, smoothing them. "My. It looks as though he has missed the train."

"I got your owl," Luna said now as though Hermione had just mentioned it. Hermione grew wide-eyed and quickly scanned Harry's side of the compartment, biting her lips and subtly shaking her head at Luna. Luna, however, continued undaunted, "But I don't know how we can go on without Harry. Who will teach us? Books _are_ , of course, wonderful things," she said with true Ravenclaw rapture at their mention. "But have you actually worked any of the spells? I'm apprehensive, personally."

" _Luna_ ," Hermione said overloudly. "The train's moving. Don't you think, perhaps, you should get settled into your own carriage?" she hinted with tact only Hermione could muster in a situation like this.

"Oh, I had thought of sitting with Cho. She's a bit lonely now, you know. What with all that mess with Marietta. They don't get on well now at all. But Cho is rather too silly for a Ravenclaw if you ask me. And there's so much room here. Yes. I think I'll sit with you," she said as though she had been invited, bending to, once more, practically sit in Harry's lap.

"No offence, _Luna_ ," Ron cut with a lack of tact only _he_ could muster. "But there's a reason there's so much room." Luna froze mid-squat and looked at Ron as though she couldn't possibly comprehend what that reason was. Hermione scowled at Ron but did nothing to quiet him. "We were wanting a bit of privacy. Y'know, just me and Hermione." Playing along, Hermione reached over and twined her fingers in Ron's, giving Luna an apologetic smile. Ron threw Hermione a quick, sideways glance as if to say 'Oh, _now_ you want to hold my hand?'

Luna looked from Ron to Hermione to their clasped hands and comprehension dawned. A smile drifted across her face, and she straightened and grinned goofily at them for a moment, her head tilted like an inquiring cocker spaniel. "How charming," she said. "And here I thought, from what Padma's been hearing from Parvati all these years, that Hermione would be with Harry." Harry raised an eyebrow from behind his cloak and looked at Hermione. Ron's brow furrowed and he gave her a demanding look. Hermione herself looked as though she wanted to crawl under her seat. "Yes. You'd be much better suited for him than Cho. Though, personally, I don't understand what all the fuss is about. He's famous and everything, but well, you know...

"But _you_ two do make a nice couple, as well," she went on. "The unlikely ones are always the most endearing. Which reminds me, did you know the Queen is secretly seeing a part-yeti? They rendezvous somewhere in Belgium. Someone caught the most darling pictures. Father's running the story in next month's issue," Luna informed them, tilting her head to the other side now. Ron glared at her, and Harry noticed he was clutching Hermione's hand almost painfully tight. "I'll not spoil it, though. The story, that is. But I'll make sure you get a copy, Hermione. Well. Goodbye," she said and drifted off, still smiling dreamily, sliding the door to behind her. As soon as she was out of sight Harry ripped off his cloak.

"She got your _owl_?" Harry demanded before Ron could set in. Hermione was flustered and looked from Ron's hard expression to Harry's and back again, unsure what to say to either. Ron released her hand as if dropping an oozing bubotuber pod. "Hermione," Harry scolded, "Dumbledore said there were to be no more DA meetings." Ron turned his sour expression on Harry.

"Yes. Well, I know," Hermione said, nose scrunched contritely. "But we were doing so well. And now that Voldemort is back. I thought it wouldn't hurt-"

"But Dumbledore's forbidden it," Harry insisted.

"Like you're one to talk," Ron interjected. "It isn't like something being against the rules has ever stopped you before."

Harry scowled at Ron, upset but trying not to become angry. "But this is different," he said.

"Why? Because it isn't _you_ breaking the rules this time?"

"We aren't sneaking about behind Umbridge anymore," Harry argued shortly. " _Because_ Voldemort's back, we need to listen to Dumbledore. I'm sure he has a very good reason for not wanting us to hold DA meetings anymore."

"So we aren't allowed to defend ourselves, is that it? You'll do that for us, I suppose?"

Harry bit his tongue and Ron glared. Hermione looked thoroughly guilty. This was the kind of lecture she usually gave Harry, not the other way around.

"Listen," Harry said finally. "I can't stop you. Just don't expect me to help, okay?"

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a long while as the open country streamed passed the window. As the day wore on, they had a few visitors; the first accompanied by Ginny ("Oh _there_ you are, Harry!" _Wink_ ) who stopped for a short while and after which almost fully half the occupants of the train felt compelled to pass by the compartment, ogling them through the glass as if to confirm the gossip for themselves.

The witch with the candy trolley came by in the early afternoon and Hermione generously sprang for them all Pumpkin Juice, Cauldron Cakes, and Chocolate Frogs. Harry, who had skipped breakfast, devoured his the instant Hermione set them in his hands, thanking her profusely and so loosening the tension between them considerably. The two chatted idly for the next hour or so with a handful of terse contributions from Ron.

The dark came early as gloomy clouds moved in to choke the last hour of light from the setting sun. Rain drizzled down in a sporadic, uneven rhythm against their window. Ron was looking much less sour and even almost smiled at Harry when he asked if he might swipe Ron's last, neglected Chocolate Frog, uttering a decidedly non-hostile 'Naw, I've already two of her' when Harry offered him Matilda Munkshank's card from within it. The lights came up and Hermione pulled a book from the overhead.

"That reminds me," Harry said. "I'm to get a book from you. _Th_ _e Vampire's Companion_ or something. Remus wanted me to read it."

Hermione blushed. "It's in my trunk," she confessed. "I'll get it for you when we arrive. So, how _are_ the lessons coming along?" Hermione asked tentatively. "Or can you say?" she added. Heretofore, they had only talked about innocuous things like the ridiculousness of _The Quibbler_ (despite its usefulness the previous year) and the coming term's course study. But Harry knew she had been dying to venture onto this topic for hours now, and to tell the truth, he'd been waiting hopefully for it.

"Not too bad, actually," he told her. "Remus is teaching me loads of interesting stuff. Like, did you know banshees only mate once in their entire lifetime?"

"Must be why they're always in a foul mood," Ron quipped. Everyone gave an amused snort. "What about Occlumency? You and Snape haven't killed each other yet, I see," Ron said, but almost as though he regretted the fact. Whether because it meant he still had to put with Snape or with Harry, Harry couldn't quite tell.

"Yeah. That's probably just because I've only seen him a couple of times," Harry said, relieved they were on the subject of the Potions Master. "He's just come back last night."

"Come back from where?" Ron asked as though he couldn't care less and was only being conversational. Actually, Harry was pretty curious about that himself.

"Not sure," he admitted. "To meet with the Death Eaters, I suppose."

"Hmm," Ron replied perfunctorily.

"I think he had a bad time of it. That or he'd been storing up his nastiness for when he got back," Harry grumbled. "He was in an awful mood. But...well, it wasn't all just insults," he said, trying to work his way toward Snape's confession. "I don't know. He said some pretty...confusing things. About what he thinks of me." Hermione looked intrigued. But Ron woke from his window gazing and rolled his eyes at Harry.

"About _you_?"

Harry nodded.

"It's always about you, isn't it?" Ron grumbled under his breath. Harry was a bit hurt by that but wasn't given a chance to respond. "Said some things to upset you did he?" Ron asked. That was the invitation Harry had been waiting for all day, but by Ron's tone, he wasn't sure he should answer. Though, Ron looked to be waiting for a response.

"Er...yeah. It bothered me quite a bit, actually."

Hermione was begging with her eyes for him to elaborate. Ron snorted. "And I suppose now you want to talk about it?" he said tartly.

Harry's brow furrowed further. "Well," he began.

"You wanna tell me all about it so I can slap you on the back and tell you Snape's a git and not to worry about it, is that it?" Ron said snippily. Harry didn't answer, just set his jaw and scowled at Ron. Hermione looked anxious.

" _Now_ you want me to be your friend?" Ron demanded, growing louder with every word and sitting forward in his seat. "What about the last few weeks? You didn't need me then did you?"

"Ron," Harry started crossly.

"Well, what if I needed you? Did you think about that? Oh, but that's different, I suppose. I'm not important like you. I'm not 'Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived To Be Too Good For His Friends'!"

Harry wondered just how long Ron had been waiting to deliver that line, and how many times he had rehearsed it. "Ron, you don't understand," Harry argued, struggling to keep his voice even.

"Oh, I think I understand just fine. All I ever hear is 'Harry this' and 'Harry that'. Everyone is always so concerned about _Harry_. Even my own girlfriend," he spat.

Hermione looked extremely troubled. "Now, Ron," she half chided, half whined but was ignored.

"So I'm sure you're used to everyone falling all over themselves to listen to your little problems. Well, not me. Not anymore. Real friends make time for each other."

Harry was really angry now, despite himself. "Little Problems?" he burst. "You think having a bloodthirsty madman, intent on _killing_ me, in my _head_ is a little problem? You think being expected to save the whole _bloody_ world from him is a little problem?!"

Ron rose to his feet and so did Harry. "Well, I might not, but I really don't know what your problems are anymore, as you've ignored me for the last _three weeks!"_

"I'm trying to tell you now, you prat!" Harry yelled, his face only inches from Ron's. "I was trying to protect you!"

"Oh. I see. Your secrets are just too big and important for invisible ickle Ronnie to handle, eh?"

Harry balled his fists, Ron reached for his wand.

"Ron! Harry!" Hermione shouted at them finally, trying to get between them. But she had barely risen from her seat when the lights flickered and all three of them were knocked from their feet. With the squealing of brakes their only warning, they were thrown to the front of the compartment, pressed painfully into the bottom of the seats. The train shuddered and the lights went out completely. Bags and baubles rained down on them from the overhead. Harry groped in the darkness to find a hold on something, anything, to steady himself as the shifting force of the halting train tossed them about like rag dolls.

Finally, with a thump and a last high-pitched squeal of the brakes, the train was completely stopped. Harry struggled to sit up amid the things strewn about the carriage floor. The door had been knocked open and beyond it Harry could hear grunts and moans from the other occupants, but otherwise there was no sound other than the slap of rain on the glass.

"Ron! Hermione! Are you okay?" Harry asked, standing shakily. He heard a groan somewhere to his right and stooped to help Ron to his feet.

"My wand," Ron said, panicked. "I've lost it. I can't _see_ anything." To his left, he heard Hermione whisper a spell and the tip of her own wand ignited with a meagre light. She held it above her head to better illuminate the compartment, and Harry could see her wary face clearly. There was a gash over her temple oozing blood that, in the blue glow of her wand, looked black and was running quickly down her face.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Harry muttered, lifting his hand to dab the trickling stuff with his shirt sleeve. But he was distracted by a flash of green light outside. Harry spun around and quickly scaled the debris to reach the window.

The Dark Mark hovered menacingly over a copse of trees not twenty feet from the train. Harry stared at the ominous signal, mouth agape, and staggered back from the window. He stumbled on Hermione's book bag and would have fallen had not Ron caught his arm and righted him, afterwards patting him supportively on the shoulder. Hermione clung to Ron, wand still aloft, and the two of them looked almost like corpses in the mixture of blue and green light. A slow chorus of wails and gasps swelled from other parts of the carriage as the others caught sight of the dreaded omen.

"Harry...is it?" Hermione asked, unwilling to approach the window to see for herself. Ron was wide-eyed and silent. Harry only swallowed and nodded. No one seemed to want to move. Suddenly the wails and desperate weeping from down the corridor were punctuated by a sharper, more immediate expression of fear as a shrill scream rent the air. Reflexively, Harry grabbed his wand and made for the door to see what was the matter. He found his question answered before he even reached the threshold.

The air grew suddenly chill, as though he'd been plunged into icy water, and the pale green glow from the Mark was slowly consumed by an almost material darkness.

"Dementors!" he shouted to Ron and Hermione, immediately vaulting himself out of the door. He had only taken a few steps when pandemonium erupted in the narrow corridor. Frantic children spilled from their compartments to escape their windows and the sinister sign beyond them only to stumble across a small army of Dementors which was pouring into the carriage. Screams erupted on every side of him, and Harry spun about, not knowing what to do or where to begin. The Dementors were sweeping about, excited to frenzy by the sheer terror that hovered thick in the air. They scurried here and there, unsure, perhaps, which scrambling child looked the most enticing. Harry swished his wand in no particular direction, as it didn't matter really, the Dementors were everywhere.

" _Expecto Patronum_!"

A silver stag erupted from his wand and passed right through the crowd of students, chasing away the darkness as it charged toward the closest Dementor. It was stooped over a small first-year girl, frozen in terror as the thing bent to deliver its deadly kiss. When the stag approached, it instantly dropped her and fled, taking with it two more Dementors in its path. But there were others down the opposite end of the passage and more coming in all the time...more in other cars. Harry began to panic. How on _earth_ would he drive them all away before someone got hurt?

Just as these desperate thoughts took hold of him, Harry heard Hermione utter the saving spell from somewhere behind him. Her shimmering otter gambolled down the walkway, evacuating three more Dementors.

"Go!" she cried, turning to direct the creature toward a fourth Dementor trying to slip into a compartment at the other end of the carriage. Harry didn't need to be told twice. He fought his way through the press of frightened students toward other parts of the train. Throwing open the door to the adjoining car, wand raised and ready, he only narrowly avoided being trampled by a Dementor that was trying to escape the large, shimmering swan flapping and nipping at its heels. Thunderstruck, Harry looked up to see Cho, clutching her wand and looking more fierce and determined than he ever thought her soft, gentle features would allow. She was back to back with Terry Boot who was producing a shiny eagle of his own. Harry was momentarily paralysed by the pride he felt at that sight. He, Harry, had taught them this. And it may very well be saving lives.

"We've got this carriage, Harry!" Terry called to him when he spied Harry standing in the passage. "Go see to the others."

Harry nodded, possessed of a new sense of hope and determination. He fought his way all the way up the train, finding DA members throughout, even those who hadn't quite mastered the spell when last he'd seen them attempt it, leaping into action. They gave him nods and thumbs up and ushered him further on. Harry cast here and there, once narrowly saving Justin Finch-Fletchley as a Dementor crept up on him as he sent his Patronus in the opposite direction to flush out a small group of its companions. But other than that, there was little for Harry to do. Dumbledore's Army rose to the challenge brilliantly. _His_ army rose to the challenge, and Harry almost wished Snape was there just so he could point to his classmates and say, smugly, that he might not be a master of Occlumency, but when it came to more practical defence, he obviously was no novice.

Harry worked his way back down the train, checking in with DA members as he went, though most were now simply consoling scared youngsters.

"Through there, Harry," Lee informed him urgently from where he knelt stroking the back of a crying second-year boy. "I think I saw one slip into the next carriage."

Harry nodded and went to investigate. The car was practically deserted and the silence there was not of a Dementor's making. As he crept through it, Harry thought he could hear muffled crying in the last compartment, and he bounded down the corridor toward it. Harry slid back the door and thought, at first, that he had been mistaken and that the compartment was empty. But his eyes finally came to rest on a huddled figure in the shadowy corner. Draco Malfoy was curled on the floor hugging his folded legs to his chest, his face buried in his knees.

"Malfoy?"

Draco's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Harry, clearly put out that the other boy had seen him in such a state. "Why don't you just go the hell away, Potter?" he muttered, his voice too weary to carry its usual venom. He swiped furiously at tear-soaked eyes.

Harry couldn't care less about Malfoy's melt down. "The Dementor," he asked urgently. "Where's it gone?"

"Dementor? What Dementor?" Draco asked, looking suddenly fearful and drawing himself quickly to his feet. Harry looked at him as though he was daft.

 _The Dementor that's roaming this bloody carriage, you_ _ _prat__ _!_ Harry wanted to say. Why on earth else would Malfoy be so upset? Before the question could pass his lips, however, an agonised scream carried from a nearby carriage, causing Harry's breath to freeze in his chest.

Harry recognised it, even though he'd never actually heard it before. His heart hammering, Harry forgot all about Malfoy and dashed toward the source of the scream. But as quickly as he knew he must be running, it felt as though he were moving in slow motion. It seemed like the air had congealed and Harry couldn't fight his way through it quickly enough, couldn't breathe it in.

Finally, Harry reached his own carriage. A group of people was gathered outside his, Ron, and Hermione's compartment, all simply standing and staring mutely through the open door. They seemed to sense Harry's arrival, and those closest to him turned and gave him distressed, pitying looks. When he approached, they parted for him silently and allowed him to pass. In his heart, Harry already knew exactly what he would see when he reached the door, but nothing could have prepared him for the actual shock of it.

Hermione knelt on the floor, wailing loudly and rocking back and forth. A still, sprawled figure was cradled in her arms. Harry swallowed hard and, as if by some volition other than his own, moved closer to look at Ron's face.

He was pale as death itself, and his head was hanging back over Hermione's arm, his eyes half-lidded and rolled back in his head, his mouth hanging slack. He was completely motionless except for the small, quick, automatic intake of breath that sounded like tiny gasps and caused him to appear as though he were twitching mildly. Harry couldn't do anything but stare.

"Oh, _Harry!"_ Hermione cried when she caught sight of him in the doorway. Harry had never seen her so devastated. She moaned and clutched at Ron's jumper as if she simply couldn't hold him to her tightly enough. Slowly, Harry's shock bled away and he began trembling.

"Ron?" he whispered as though hoping against hope his friend might hear him and wake from his stupor. "Ron!" he repeated, diving to his knees beside them, seizing Ron's shirt front in both fists and shaking him firmly. _"RON!"_

Ron's head only bobbed and lolled to the side, saliva pouring from the corner of his mouth. _"Harry!"_ Hermione gasped at him, wide-eyed and horrified, laying one hand restrainingly on Harry's forearm and with the other reclaiming their unconscious friend. Harry released him and sat back on his feet, unable to tear his eyes from Ron's blank face.

"I-I," Hermione hiccupped. "I o-only turned for a moment!" Slowly, Harry turned his gaze to her, amazed that she was able to even speak, her features were so constricted by anguish. "H-he'd lost his wand. I s-should have been more careful. I just...I only turned for a moment!" she sobbed.

As he watched her smoothing back Ron's hair from his face, her tears falling on Ron's cheeks, Harry went numb. He was only vaguely aware that he was rising to his feet, that he was stumbling backward out of the compartment and into the crowd outside it. They closed in around him, and Harry slowly turned to look at them. On all sides, there were faces, barely visible in the dim light. Weeping faces. Frightened faces. Sad, sympathetic faces. All turned to him. All waiting, it seemed, for what he would do next.

The scene lost all semblance of reality. This wasn't real. This wasn't _real_. This was a nightmare. This...this was Hell.

Harry had to leave. He had to get away from these dour visages, had to get away from the sound of Hermione's crying. He plunged clumsily through the gathering and into the open corridor. He couldn't breathe. The walls were shrinking in around him. Harry rushed for the exit as though his very life depended on it and forced open the door. He stumbled and fell from the step onto the wet though still painfully hard ground below. His knees ached where he had landed on them, but he could not even find the will to rise to his feet.

How was it the open air still felt so _close?_ Other than that quandary, Harry's mind was blank. It simply no longer functioned. He glanced up and fixed his gaze on the fading Mark, still hanging like a luminous pale green wisp of cloud overhead. Slowly, it dimmed and blinked from view entirely. Harry's blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and somewhere far off, he heard a woman screaming, pleading...

But it wasn't Hermione.

A pale, withered face drifted into Harry's line of vision. It was shadowed by an immense black hood, but Harry could still distinguish the perfect O formed by its cracked, white lips. In Harry's head, his mother began to scream louder. Someone gave a high-pitched cackle of a laugh. Harry still held his wand but couldn't seem to find the strength to lift it.

 _So this was the last thing Ron ever saw,_ he thought to himself as cold hands took hold of either side of his face.

"Expect...ex-expecto..." he mumbled half-heartedly. But it was no use. He knew it. And at that moment, Harry accepted it. Even if he could utter the words, the spell would fail.

Harry had no happy thoughts.


	12. I'll No More On't, It Hath Made Me Mad

Harry closed his eyes. He would just let this happen. There was nothing he could do to prevent it.

That fact seemed to absolve him, allowed Harry to concede with clear conscience that perhaps he even wanted this in a way. Through no weakness of character, no failing of his own, he was being set free from the endless pressures and expectations that came with simply being who he was. But even as the thought of death grew more and more seductive, Harry felt the icy hands release him. He opened his eyes.

The Dementor was shrinking away from him. Harry was slightly disappointed and more than slightly confused, but just then a great, glimmering gryphon Patronus swooped down soundlessly from overhead, back claws splayed and wings beating with slow, powerful grace. For a moment, Harry forgot the precariousness of his situation and was simply awestruck. The mythical beast was immediately followed by a very large, shining bat and a spider which resembled a gigantic, luminous albino Black Widow scurrying along beneath. As Harry watched the three drive the Dementor, flailing, out of sight, a hand seized him from behind and jerked him roughly to his feet.

"What in bloody hell is wrong with you?!" Snape demanded harshly, nonetheless holding Harry at arm's length and frantically inspecting him for injury. "Were you just going to sit there, wand-in-hand, and let the accursed thing kiss you?" he asked, taking Harry's face roughly in his own hand to examine his eyes and colouring.

Harry, still numb, did not answer. He only stared at the Potions Master, seeing him in a new light since the night before. There was the usual anger and disgust but also distress and, in some small amount, concern in the man's expression. Harry didn't know what to make of it and so filed it away in his memory, incapable of analysing it at the moment. Snape, confident Harry still possessed his soul, gave a small, satisfied snort. But before he looked away, his eyes, quite on accident, were caught by Harry's. Snape was suddenly very still, completely frozen in place but for the subtle shadow of inquiry that drifted across his features. Neither blinked. It was one of the eeriest experiences of Harry's young life, exchanging a gaze with Snape which wasn't filled with anger or hatred or any kind of animosity.

"Severus," Harry heard Dumbledore call from the darkness behind Snape, jolting the man to his senses. Realising he still cupped Harry's chin in his palm, Snape jerked his hand away as though the contact stung him. He gave Harry one last, uncertain look before stepping aside to reveal the Headmaster. He was approaching quickly--more quickly than one might have guessed a man of his age was capable--and he was accompanied by the wiry blonde Witch Harry recognised from Grimmauld Place.

"He appears to be intact," Snape reported stiffly, taking another uncomfortable step away from Harry. Dumbledore heaved a sigh of relief and placed a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Excellent. Though it hardly surprises me," he smiled. Harry thought Dumbledore might burst if he appeared any more proud of him, and it made Harry slightly angry for some reason. "Professor Cobbleshot has informed me of the marvellous way in which you and your friends have defended the others during the attack," he gushed. "I can't tell you-"

"Ron," Harry interrupted in a dull voice, his eyes trailing away from the Headmaster's. How could Dumbledore be so cheerful when Ron...

He must not know. But didn't Dumbledore know everything? Harry needed to tell him. But he couldn't find the words, or rather he couldn't speak them. Dumbledore's smile disappeared and he sobered, waiting patiently for Harry to go on. "Ron," Harry repeated shakily. "He...They..." Harry's wand slipped from his fingers and fell dully to the ground, and Harry teetered as though he might follow. Snape caught him easily beneath the shoulders, but it was clear Harry wouldn't be able to support himself and Snape held him upright with an irritated groan.

Despite Harry's ambiguity, Dumbledore seemed to understand him perfectly.

"Severus, come with me," he said already turning toward the train. "Rainey, see to Harry. Get him back on the train." Harry was hastily handed over to the stranger; more hastily than the urgency of the situation required. The little witch possessed far greater strength in her spindly limbs than Harry might have guessed and bore him easily when Snape heaved him like a sack of stones in her direction. Snape and Dumbledore disappeared into the shadows of the train, two billows of starched black and soft crimson velvet, with Harry, disoriented by the sudden flurry of activity, looking numbly after them.

"You'll not want to lose this, my little one," the Witch said, drawing Harry's arm around her neck to better support him as she bent to retrieve his wand and slip it slowly and carefully into his trouser pocket. Finally, Harry turned to look at her. Her voice had unnerved him worse than her look had before. It was low and dark and musty. It made Harry think of cheap brandy for some reason, even though he'd never had brandy in his life.

"Who are you?" Harry heard himself ask her.

"Hmm," she said, a noncommittal, ragged vibration low in her throat. "Let us get you on board before we bother with introductions."

Harry allowed himself to be pulled back onto the train. Many of the carriages were now empty as the others congregated further up. Harry wondered if this was the carriage where he'd found Malfoy. Though, there was no sign of the boy, and all the carriages looked the same, really. Oh well. Harry realised he didn't especially care.

She directed him to a central compartment, and as he took a seat, the lights flickered and came back on. Harry winced, not only because his eyes were so accustomed to the darkness, but also because the sudden light was too warm, too cosy. Too normal. The cabin he sat in, like all the others, was plush and colourful; an inviting space where nothing dark or devastating happened. It turned Harry's stomach. He hated it. He hated its cheerful lie.

Once he was settled, Harry's chaperone indifferently handed him a fair chunk of chocolate, which Harry only stared at and turned in his hands while she went to the door and peeked out. After checking the corridor in both directions and satisfying herself of their safety, she settled into the seat across from Harry, paying him little notice. She seemed far too at ease for Harry's liking. It annoyed him the way she sat there, relaxed, legs crossed, chewing the inside of her lip and idly brushing dirt from her black trousers. He found her almost as repulsive as the compartment.

Long moments passed in silence. The witch glanced around, patiently waiting on the Headmaster to return, but Harry fixed his eyes on her. She reminded him of Sirius and Remus in that he guessed her to be about their same age, yet she looked much older. She too bore creases of extreme hardship. Time and trial had left their bitter claw marks at the corners of her eyes and mouth but, unlike Remus', they appeared in no way kind, nor did they flatter her. She looked hardened, not necessarily wizened, and her face was too cold, angular, and ashen to be thought lovely. Though, Harry guessed she might have been quite so at one time, many years ago.

Only very slowly, Harry came to realise that she returned his stare. Their eyes met and, again, her look rattled him. It was not malicious, just cold and unabashed, which Harry felt was almost worse. He looked away and took to studying the design on the rug instead.

Time felt like it was standing still. In the complete silence, without the ticking of a clock, he couldn't gauge its passage. Everything seemed to lose its proportion, and his perception swelled and contracted. One moment he thought he'd go mad with waiting, with being unsure what he was even waiting for. The next, all structured thought would leave him and he felt he could drift in this timeless silence forever. At last, Harry heard the soft hiss of the door to the compartment slide open. He glanced up to see Dumbledore standing there with Hermione before him, still crying steadily but silently. The Headmaster shepherded her inside to sit beside Harry, as she seemed not to know, or either not to care, where she was.

"Ride with them the rest of the way to Hogwarts would you, Rainey?" he asked their escort solemnly before turning to Harry and Hermione. "You are in excellent hands, I assure you," he promised gently. "This is Professor Cobbleshot, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I will see you both again when we arrive." And with that, he withdrew again.

Harry turned to Hermione but had no idea what he might say to her. He felt as lost as she looked. He wanted to comfort her somehow, but she looked so fragile, as though she might crumble should he dare to touch her. Before he could bring himself to put his arm around Hermione, Professor Cobbleshot slipped from her seat to kneel before her, boldly taking one of Hermione's hands in both of her own.

"There, there," she cooed, yet her face was devoid of expression. Hermione wasn't looking at her anyway, or at anything in particular. But Harry was. The scene sent a searing bolt of protectiveness through him. He had the impulse to swat the vile woman away from Hermione. He felt like growling at her. But he did neither. He only watched her distrustfully.

When she got no response, Professor Cobbleshot shrugged slightly and, after regarding Hermione curiously for a moment more, returned to her seat. Harry immediately wrapped his arm around Hermione, pulling her around to cry into his chest and throwing the professor a sour look. Oblivious to Harry's caustic glower, Cobbleshot simply curled her fingers under her chin and watched them.

The remainder of the journey passed surprisingly quickly. It seemed only a heartbeat before they arrived at the school. Harry was held in the carriage while the train was emptied. Hermione was immediately whisked off to the hospital wing with several others to have the gash on her forehead mended. There would be no trip across the lake tonight for the First Years, perhaps for one of the first times since the tradition began. Harry was to be taken to the school in a carriage all his own after the others set off, accompanied by his new teacher. When he stopped to affectionately stroke the neck of the thestral that would pull them, Cobbleshot allowed it. She even gave the beast a pat herself before sauntering over and opening the carriage door for Harry. Neither spoke as they bounced along toward the school but, again, Cobbleshot studied Harry in her unnerving way. He might have thought he'd be accustomed to being the object of attention by now. But hers was not the adoring gaze of those at Grimmauld Place. It was simply and coldly intent, yet at the same time, it was almost indifferent. It irked him immensely, but he held his tongue. Perhaps he was only being overly sensitive.

When they finally shuffled into the school, Harry could hear Dumbledore's voice already carrying through the cavernous halls. Harry tarried outside the doors of the Great Hall, listening to the Headmaster make his speech. He was attempting to lend comfort to the frightened student body, particularly those closest to Ron. Though ironically, those the very closest to him were not even present. He praised Ron's courage, his loyalty. He lamented the tragedy of his 'death', and in so many words, he urged everyone to remember him, like Cedric, not only as the wonderful person he was but also as further proof of the ruthlessness and sheer heartlessness of the Dark Lord. This angered Harry greater than anything else that had happened that night.

How was it Dumbledore always seemed able to twist tragedy into a rallying point against Voldemort? Why couldn't he just let them all grieve without stuffing bloody propaganda down their throats?

Because they all were his army and he knew it, even those who weren't members of DA, and he was programming them. A whole new generation was being trained, not only to become competent, productive members of the Wizarding world but also--and perhaps more importantly--to battle Voldemort and his followers. And the next Dark Lord after him like Grindelwald before. Harry's resentment dropped like a lead weight to the pit of his stomach.

Cobbleshot ran a hand lightly down Harry's arm to pull him back to the here and now. It made him shiver in a decidedly unpleasant way. For fear she would touch him again, Harry began walking, leaving the doors of the Great Hall behind. He didn't need to be told their destination was Dumbledore's office. He'd been through the 'school crisis' drill before.

Cobbleshot whispered the password to the gargoyle statue, right into its ear as though it were a living breathing sentinel, and stepped aside for Harry to enter. Without so much as a nod, she wandered off elsewhere as Harry rose on the rotating stair and out of sight. Harry shook his head. The woman's oddity might almost have fascinated him if it did not presently bother him so severely.

He found the door to the office unlocked and went inside, taking a seat in one of the familiar chairs, and waited for the Headmaster as he had far too many times before. He had recovered himself considerably by now. He didn't feel quite so dazed. Anger can be surprisingly sobering, and unfortunately, he didn't find this space as soothing or reassuring as he once did. Sometime during his last visit here, it had changed. Or rather, Harry had changed, and it no longer had its usual effect on him. Now, it was just a room.

Harry sat there, trying to drown Dumbledore's speech from his thoughts, trying not to replay the evening in his mind, trying to stop himself from wondering what he could have done differently. He ignored the eyes from all the dozens of paintings he knew were trained on him. Despite his efforts, his and Ron's last angry exchange echoed through his thoughts. Dumbledore's words may have riled him, but Ron's cut him deeply. If he didn't quiet them soon, he'd surely go mad. Harry tried to dwell in the remembrance of the trust he'd felt in Ron's grip when Harry had helped him to his feet, or the reassuring clap on the back he'd received after Ron return the favour soon after. But then all Harry's forced avenues of thought came to an abrupt end as realisation began to slowly sink in.

Ron was gone.

It seemed so difficult to imagine. Harry's life before he'd found the Wizarding world seemed like an illusion, and after...afterwards there had always, always been Ron. Everything that had happened to Harry since he was eleven years old had been shared in some way with the boy. But never again. They would never share another adventure, another secret, another grudging word or friendly gesture. The memory of Ron's face in the blue-green glow before the attack drifted to the surface of Harry's thoughts. He'd looked so corpse-like, a portent of things to come. Harry tried and failed to banish the image. It was only replaced, finally, by the memory of Ron's face as he lay in Hermione's arms. Despair welled in Harry like liquid in a container too small and frail to hold it. He fought it, but half-heartedly. It was a battle he knew he wouldn't win. Harry clenched his fists. His cheeks were already wet and he was trembling again. It was far too quiet in the room. He needed a distraction. If he did escape these thoughts...

"Heard you had a rough time of it."

Harry's head snapped toward the voice, startled but relieved. Phineas was seated haughtily in his frame, looking down at him. Harry might have been irritated by the very sight of him, had his comment not pulled Harry from such dangerous thoughts. Still, Harry didn't bother with a response. Grateful though he may be, he still couldn't stand Phineas.

"Though, as usual, you seem to have blundered forth to save the day. What would we all do if not for Harry Potter, eh?" Phineas continued sardonically, apparently none too impressed. However, his remark emboldened the many who were, and from every side, Harry was pelted with comments like 'Bravo, my boy', 'Brilliant show', 'Truly marvellous,' and 'Taught them well, you did!'

All the former heads of Hogwarts looked down on Harry, grinning, misty-eyed, and proud to bursting. Harry groaned quietly. Though after that short outburst, they all seemed too overcome to comment further anyway. Everyone, that is, except Phineas.

"Yes, yes. Bravo and all that," he said with a wave of his hand. "You'll be pleased to know your flea-bitten guardian is well on his way here."

Harry bristled but only shook his head. He felt quite certain Phineas simply enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and far too much at that. He'd just ignore him.

"Though, I can't say I would have elected him for the job...of being your keeper, that is. Why Dumbledore didn't see fit to chose another, considering the blatant spell that nancy cast on my grandson, is beyond me. How does he expect that to be a positive influence on you?" Instead of taking the hint, Phineas seemed somehow encouraged by Harry's lack of response. "Personally, I can't say I trust him," he confided nastily. "The mangy bitch ruined my lineage and now I imagine he'll want to ruin your father's." Harry's teeth ground and he finally turned a slow, venous glare in Phineas' direction.

"Phineas, shush!" scolded a witch two paintings over. All the rest were scowling at him, as well. But apparently, Phineas enjoyed having an audience, even an irate one.

"I will not 'shush'," he snapped, nose rising a little higher, getting a bit riled himself. "My house, the most noble and ancient House of Black, is finished. Our name is but a memory, all because that queer-"

"Phineas!" someone gasped. Harry was on the edge of his seat, fists clenched for an entirely different reason now.

"Well, it's true!" Phineas insisted to the objecting wizard across the room. "Sirius produced no heir, all because that sulking..."

"This is not appropriate!"

"...bestial..."

"Really!"

"...faggot corrupted him!"

"Shut. Up." Harry's voice was quiet but dangerous, and his nails were embedded in the arm of his chair. Phineas started. He was so busy arguing with the others, he appeared to have forgotten Harry was even there. His chest puffed in offence.

"Excuse me, young man, but I don't think you have any place telling me-"

"SHUT UP! Shut up, or I'll shut you up!" Harry shouted, swiftly rising to his feet and overturning his chair in the process. Phineas ruffled further and filled his lungs to shout back but was interrupted when Dumbledore walked through the office door.

"Harry?" he inquired, looking at him down his spectacles. Anyone in that wing of the castle could have heard Harry's outburst. All of the portraits spoke up at once to tattle on Phineas.

'It was him again, sir.'

'Being absolutely-'

'No respect for-'

Dumbledore raised his hand for quiet. "Phineas," he said calmly, drawing further into his office, "kindly remove yourself for the time being."

"Well, I-"

"Phineas," Dumbledore repeated firmly, "go and see if Remus has left yet."

"He has," Phineas replied flatly, crossing his arms and hunkering down as though he had absolutely no intention of going anywhere. But Dumbledore's severe look, as well as the threatening ones he was getting from several of his neighbours who were brandishing their wands and inching slowly toward his frame, apparently changed Phineas' mind. Muttering crossly, he withdrew into the shadowy depths of his canvas and was gone.

Dumbledore sighed and made his way heavily toward his desk. There he stood, looking kindly and sadly down at Harry, who was staring at the rug as though he aspired to set it aflame through sheer will and was chewing angrily on his bottom lip till it almost bled.

"Harry," Dumbledore said gently, drawing Harry's attention from the floor. Though, Harry's violent expression didn't change with his focal point. Dumbledore's brow furrowed ever so slightly.

"What?" Harry snapped. Instead of answering him, Dumbledore took a deep breath and finally seated himself. He cast Harry a concerned look and lay his hands on his desk, opening them toward Harry in a gesture of invitation.

"Would you care to discuss what has happened?" he offered. Harry snorted.

"And just what do you expect me to say?" he asked scathingly. Dumbledore's furrow deepened.

"Perhaps how you feel about-"

"About losing my best friend? ABOUT BEING THE REASON HE DIED?"

"Harry. There is absolutely no reason you should feel responsible in any way-"

"Please. I'm not so bloody naive. I wish everyone would stop treating me like I am," Harry interrupted. Dumbledore opened his mouth to object, but closed it again. "Of course it's my fault," Harry continued waspishly. "This whole ruddy mess involves me. It always does."

"Harry, it involves us all. But that certainly doesn't mean you are at fault," Dumbledore argued gently. "Voldemort, we believe, was under the impression you were not even aboard the Hogwarts Express at the time of the attack."

"Which is why he attacked it? Is that it? Because I wasn't there to throw a kink in the plan as usual?" This was not the point Dumbledore had been trying to make, obviously. Still, Harry could tell by Dumbledore's silence and expression that he had struck near to the truth. "See? I was part of his decision. I was the reason we were attacked. I was one of Voldemort's concerns, and so it was my fault," Harry said adamantly. Dumbledore shook his head and began to argue, but Harry grimaced and shook his head, gesturing for silence. "I don't want to talk about it," he said feebly, laying his face in his hands.

"Hmph," came a voice from above them. "Dumbledore, really. Are you going to allow yourself to be silenced by a child? I've told you, they have no respect for auth-"

" _Phineas_ ," Dumbledore warned rather dangerously. Phineas shut up with a snap and disappeared again. Harry's anger flared, but he only shook his head and went to retrieve his chair where he was then allowed to sit and think for a moment undisturbed.

So he may not be technically at fault. What did it matter? It didn't take away his regret, his pain. It was easier to believe it _was_ his fault, that he had had the ability to prevent it and somehow failed, than it was to believe he'd been powerless. He hated feeling helpless. And above all, that's why he hated Voldemort...for rendering him so, in this and in so many other things.

And Dumbledore wanted to discuss how he felt? He wanted to know what it felt like to lose everything? To have no one and nothing. No home, no family, and now to have lost his best friend who, quite possibly, died hating him?

How could he even begin to explain what it felt like to be Harry Potter? How can one put into words the pressure and anxiety and aggravation of being expected to save the whole bloody world from a genius of the Dark Arts? A vengeful, near invincible madman he'd already killed at least twice already? How could he describe the sheer frustration that his only incentive to do so, besides to prevent anyone else he cared about from being killed, was that he had no choice? Dumbledore wanted to know how he felt? He was bloody pissed off, that's how he felt! Angry and oh so damned helpless...

Rage the likes of which Harry had never felt before, of such a magnitude he'd never thought himself capable, erupted in him. It was so all-consuming, he didn't think he could contain it. Yet he had no desire to. It was a cold fury, a malicious one. Harry felt destructive, but he didn't want to smash things. He wanted to obliterate them. He wanted to reduce the whole of Hogwarts and everything and everyone in it to ashes. He felt like strangling a bunny, decapitating a bloody unicorn. He felt like slaughtering everything innocent, pure, and carefree that had never known the kind of pain he was experiencing right now.

Harry could feel the heat rising to his face, he was shaking badly. He saw red. His anger blinded him to everything around him, to Dumbledore rising to his feet in alarm. "Harry," he said cautioningly, but Harry misunderstood his tone.

"I SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO FUCKING TALK ABOUT IT!" Harry bellowed. But as loudly as he had shouted, Harry never heard his own words. They were drowned out by a deafening roar that rushed through and around him as though Harry were standing in the centre of a bonfire. His scar exploded with pain. Though, rather than the usual stabbing pain that seemed almost to pierce his very brain, this time his scar erupted outwardly. It was as though it had split open and poured forth liquid flame. There was an ear-splitting crash, as of much glass shattering at once, and everything went black.

Harry drifted in this darkness. His anger had been too much for him to bear, and he waited in this welcome oblivion for it to be spent. But even here, where he thought he was beyond all feeling, all pain, his scar throbbed a second time...and something dark, something malevolently exhilarated, woke in him. His own cruel laughter sounded in his ears and he felt triumphant, though for the life of him, he could not understand why.

When Harry finally regained his senses, he found himself on his knees, covered in bits of tinted glass and still grinning. He shook his head to banish the last of the strange delight and glanced around him.

Every breakable object in Dumbledore's office now lay in pieces, covering the floor in a sparkling blanket as though it had just snowed shards of glass. Harry raised a shocked look to the Headmaster and saw the old Wizard's beard glittered with the stuff, and his hands and face glistened where numerous nicks and cuts began to ooze. It looked as though Dumbledore sweated blood.

The Headmaster looked _afraid_. It was the first time in Harry's life he'd seen him that way: not wary, not dreading or anticipatory, but truly fearful. Seeing it sent a glimmer of fear through Harry himself. He was afraid of Dumbledore's fear. He was afraid of what he had just done to elicit it. Slowly, Harry lifted his trembling hand to examine the wounds he bore as well, but, on seeing them, he cried out and bolted to his feet, taking several staggering steps backwards as though he could escape his own arm. Dumbledore raised a hand to him as if to comfort or quiet him, but he seemed too gobsmacked still to manage speech. Harry turned round and round, looking at the damage, trying to comprehend that he had done this.

Most of the frames on the walls were empty. The rest revealed their owners peeking timidly from the corners. All, of course, except for Phineas. He leaned forward from the shadows, wide-eyed and curiously impressed by the ruin he beheld. But this only lasted for the split second before he noticed Harry's attention, at which time his expression dissolved instantly into a haughty sneer.

"You know, Dumbledore," he drawled, apparently trying to save face. "If you don't stop having the boy up here, you'll soon have no things left at all."

It was, by far, not the cleverest or most cutting remark the man had ever uttered, yet it washed over Harry as if he'd just insulted Sirius, Ron, Remus, Cedric, and Harry's parents all at once.

"No, Harry!" Dumbledore cried, but it was too late. Harry had already taken up a large shard of glass and launched himself with a rattled cry toward Phineas, who let out a high pitched shriek of his own as Harry plunged the glass through his canvas.

"Who's the poof now?" Harry thought with frightening satisfaction as he drew the shard down the length of the painting. He lifted his arm to strike again, but his wrist was seized by strong fingers. They squeezed and shook until Harry dropped the shard, bloody where it had cut into his palm. Frustrated, Harry cried out and tore at the canvas with his other hand, doing a fair amount of damage before Dumbledore wrapped an arm securely around his waist and bore him back away from his victim. Harry clawed Dumbledore's arm, kicking against him and even gnashing his teeth.

"Shh," Dumbledore whispered into Harry's ear with surprising calm. Harry whimpered and continued to struggle. "Quiet now, Harry."

Exhausted but stubborn, Harry arched his entire body against the Headmaster's grasp and released a single, wordless roar, through which he bled out the last of his fury. "That's it, now calm yourself," Dumbledore soothed. Harry's legs trembled and gave way and they were pitched to the floor. He could feel the glass through his denim, cutting into his knees and leg, but Harry was beyond all physical pain at the moment.

"Let go, Harry."

And finally, Harry did. With a shattering sob, he fell limp. The arms around his waist slackened and drew him around to cradle him. Dumbledore was saying something else, but Harry couldn't make it out. He was drifting. He closed his eyes and immediately lost consciousness.


	13. I Am Myself Indifferent Honest

Weightless. Numb. Devoid of thought. Harry let himself sink deeper and deeper into the darkness, indifferent to its nature. For a while, he couldn't recall a time before it. He felt fresh, and eternal, and completely without identity.

Then gradually, Harry began to notice he had stopped sinking. Consciousness now cradled him, bore him in the dark like a great, listless hand.

_Why do you do this?_

The voice was faint, as if someone whispered to him from a distance. Harry scarcely heard it.

"What?"

_Why do you do this?_

Harry began to vaguely recall that something important had just happened. _He_ had done something. Something awful.

"It was an accident," he stammered weakly, unable to hear his own voice clearly and wondering if he had spoken at all. He was still uncertain exactly what it was he was denying. The voice, or rather, whatever the voice belonged to, seemed much closer now. Harry could feel its presence somehow _coat_ him like pond scum clings to a stone. It was a loathsome sensation. The voice chuckled cruelly.

Y _our whole life is an accident,_ it jeered.

Harry recognised this voice but couldn't place its owner just then. He could scarcely remember himself.

 _Things have a way of going awry for all of us, despite our intentions. So, stop whining. I_ know _what happened. I know what you_ did _, and it was no accident. Though perhaps you hadn't expected such an explosive outcome? But what do I care about an old man's trinkets? That little display of yours quite delighted me, actually. Couldn't you tell?_

Memories slowly began to surface: A carpet of shattered glass, the tinkle of raining shards. Dumbledore sweating blood. A shriek cut short by a sound like ripping fabric.

What had he done?

"Who are you?" Harry asked apprehensively.

_Come now. We both know you are capable of answering that question on your own. Why don't you try another? One more pertinent._

Harry felt like arguing that there was no reason he should be expected to answer the question himself. Why else would he have asked? But even as he wondered on it, revulsion washed over him, along with a complete recollection of self and the evening's happenings. It was violent in that it was so sudden and full, like striking the surface of icy waters after a long fall. He remembered everything. And he could now place the voice.

"Go to Hell, you heartless bastard!"

_Anger. How entertaining. Haven't tired of it yet, I see. Keep it up. You're becoming exactly what I want you to._

" _Oh?_ And just what is that?"

_Why, more like me, of course._

Harry snorted in disgust. "I'm nothing like you. You're a madman."

_Exploding a room full of baubles and shredding innocuous portraits, these are the pastimes of sane men I suppose? Stop taking on such righteous airs. We are not so different. If you could do such a thing to Phineas, you're all that much closer to doing the same to a living, breathing person. You realise that, don't you?_

Cold guilt flooded Harry's gut and threatened to make him ill. He'd gone through too much that night to allow himself to acknowledge the severity of what he'd done just yet. Harry wanted to hide, to escape. He knew he didn't have the strength for this confrontation and longed for the void of forgetfulness from which he'd so recently been torn.

"Leave me alone," he mumbled wearily. "Get out of my head."

 _And just how do you know you aren't in mine? Oh, be still,_ the voice chided. _I'm not here to rape your memories, enticing as the opportunity may be. And I assure you it would be only too easy at the moment. Call it a show of good faith. I'm just going to talk to you. No harm in that is there?_

"What could you possibly have to say to me that I would care to listen to?" Harry said, growing irritable. He was still too tired to be fearful, though reason told him he should be.

 _Oh. You'd be surprised_.

"I somehow doubt it. And what if I just told you to go bugger yourself?" Harry spat.

 _I do believe you just did_ , was the darkly amused reply. _Though, unfortunately for you, you have little choice in the matter. See, you've exhausted all your energy throwing your glorious little tantrum, and so for a while longer at least, I have a captive audience._

Resentment coiled in Harry, but he could not even muster the will to bark an insulting reply. Once again, he found himself at the mercy of circumstance.

_That's right. So what say you curtail that Gryffindor impertinence and give a listen, as we both know how foolishly self-assured you are already. Your kind seems to think your strength is best measured adversely by your show of manners, or lack thereof. You assume defiance and civility cannot exist simultaneously. But without civility, how do you suppose negotiations are made?_

"My kind?" Harry asked incredulously. "You mean people with any ounce of integrity? I guess you think murder is civil. Or maybe manners just come more easily to _cowards_. Why should I make any deals with you, anyway? Just what could you possibly offer me to make me forget you've ruined my life?"

_Oh, pish tosh. I'm not trying to make you forget anything. Quite the contrary. Besides, do you think you are the only boy ever to be orphaned? To be raised by those who did not love you? That's simply life, I'm afraid. My life _as well, actually, so you'll wring no sympathy from me._ _

_However, speaking of life--well,_ lives-- _that's precisely what I'm offering you._

"What?"

_Do try not to be so dense or this should take all night._

Harry struggled to keep his anger in check.

_You asked what we were negotiating for, did you not?_

" _Lives?_ "

 _Yes. Though it might be more appropriate to say we're negotiating_ with _lives. Yours to be specific, and the ones of those you love._

"You've already killed everyone I love," Harry snarled with as much hatred as he could summon.

 _Oh, surely not everyone. So long as you allow yourself to feel, there's always something left to be lost. Haven't I taught you that by now? And with such a passionate heart as yours, I'd imagine there are several_ _others for me to chose from. The half-breed, for instance...take your pick which. Or that Mudblood you so shamelessly associate yourself with. Was she_ very _upset by the fate of your friend? Perhaps I should put her out of her misery. You know, a mercy kill. Not unlike any compassionate soul might do when they happen upon a wounded bitch._

Before Harry could verbalise his offence, he had a vision of Hermione as she had appeared on the train: corpse-like in the eerie light. Then insult gave way to horror as the image shifted to one of her face as she had held Ron, and her anguished crying rang in Harry's ears. Despair threatened, but before it could prove overwhelming, the vision changed once again. Hermione's agonised expression shifted from one of emotional devastation to one of physical pain, and her cries became shrill and throaty as if made by one long tortured. Harry gradually came to realise that what he was seeing was no longer a mere memory, and that he now stood in a dungeon-like room of bleak stone. On the floor before him, Hermione writhed, her hoarse, unending screams wrenching at Harry's heart.

" _Hermione_ _!_ _ _No__ _!_ " Harry screamed, but he found himself glued to the spot, unable to reach her to quiet or sooth her. Harry was frantic in his impotence. He stared wildly about the room, hands pressed to his ears as though, should he be unable to hear them, Hermione's screams might cease to spill from her. A flash in the corner, of torch light on polished wood, caught his eye; and Harry watched as the tip of a sleek, black wand emerged from the darkness borne by a pale hand as the figure they belonged to lazily sidled from beneath the cover of shadow.

Lord Voldemort appeared much as he had when Harry had last met him, only his hood was thrown back now, perhaps so Harry could more clearly see the satisfaction on his hideous, inhuman face. He twitched his wand minutely in Hermione's direction so that her screams rose in pitch and volume, but otherwise he paid her little attention. His eyes, red and darkly luminous as though they gained their light by robbing it from the space around them, were locked to Harry's.

Harry tore away from his awful gaze and fell to his knees beside his suffering friend, still unable to reach her.

"Stop it!" he roared. Voldemort, to spite the urgency of the cry, only flicked his wand once more, sending Hermione arching off the floor.

" _Stop!_ Please. I'll do anything. Just...Just _stop!_ "

Slowly, Voldemort smiled and lowered his wand. Hermione instantly vanished. The space before Harry's crouched form was bare of any trace of her. Harry's heart hammered in his chest and his breath was laboured. His face was wet with tears he was unaware he'd even shed. No longer stuck fast, he crawled forward to swipe at the floor where Hermione had lain. The stones were ice cold. There was no lingering warmth from the presence of a fevered body. Finally, Harry calmed himself by degrees. It had only been an illusion. Not real. Not really his only friend being tortured to death in front of him. Hermione was safe and whole and far from this place.

When his terror subsided sufficiently to make room for it, Harry's absolute loathing for the figure looming over him filled him like liquid so cold it scalds. Without lifting his face, Harry raised a murderous stare up at Voldemort.

"I dare say, that's gotten your attention."

"You stay away from Hermione," Harry threatened, voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Do you hear me, you twisted _bastard?_ _You stay away_ or I'll-"

"You'll what?" Voldemort sneered, his tight, serpentine nostrils flaring with disgust. He gave a short, quiet laugh. "You have no more power to prevent it than you did the others. Unless we can strike a bargain, that is." Harry glared up at him but said nothing. "Accept it, Harry. You're no match for me any longer. All your previous 'victories' can be attributed to blind luck and a handicapped opponent. But those times are over. I suggest you not take for granted this one opportunity to escape this game with your life."

He _would_ consider it a game, Harry thought darkly. He closed his eyes, every fibre of his being raging against any semblance of submission to the monster before him. "Just what in hell do you want from me?" he muttered, voice still and insuppressibly defiant.

"Don't be so hasty," Voldemort drawled toyingly. "I believe you have yet to answer the question I put to you. And after all, I asked first."

Question? What bloody question? Harry bit back the curse on his tongue. Voldemort, it appeared, could not have been more delighted by a reply of any kind as he was by the absence of one. He was practically jovial when he asked, "Why do you do this?"

"Do. _What?_ "

"Why, continue to let that dotard bolster the futile hope that you might defeat me?"

"It's not futile," Harry said in a low, confident voice.

"Oh, really? With each passing day, I grow stronger, my forces multiply. My minions can be found in every nook and cranny of the Wizarding World. I have spies the world over. Though more importantly, I have a valuable few very close to home." Voldemort smiled as if he'd just made some marvellous joke at Harry's expense, and Harry tried desperately to banish all thoughts of Professor Snape.

"And just what do you have in your favour?" Voldemort went on, oblivious. Harry attempted to mask his relief with a show of expected unease. "An old fool, long passed his prime, trying to recreate his past glories through an inept band of rag-tag volunteers?" Voldemort chuckled mockingly. "Then there's _you,_ of course. Do you really think your Patronus will be enough to drive me away? Or perhaps you expect me to cower before your awesome skills of disarmament when next we meet? No. Your hope is futile." Voldemort stowed his wand in his robes as if to punctuate what he considered to be Harry's harmlessness. Harry wondered if he dared check to see if he still bore his own wand, or if it would, in fact, be to any avail to draw it.

"However, I'd personally like to think, considering the handful of times you've narrowly succeeded in eluding my grasp, that perhaps you were a modicum brighter than the blasé masses that Dumbledore so effortlessly steers using their own desperation as reins. The fools are ever willing to swallow whatever line he feeds them so long as it sounds impressive and virtuous and makes them feel secure. But you, so long and so far removed from their world...I really thought you'd have caught on to his games before now."

"You're trying to trick me," Harry said collectedly, finally rising to his feet. "It won't work."

"No," Voldemort insisted lightly as though speaking to a child. "I'm trying to enlighten you, in hopes of our mutual benefit. I've no reason to lie to you any longer, Harry. This is no longer between you and me." Harry eyed him distrustfully, and Voldemort levelled a sombre gaze at him. "But _Dumbledore_ , he likes to keep you in the dark, doesn't he? Likes to show you only enough to keep the embers burning," he said in a knowing tone. "Oh, I understand his reasoning. Minions are easier to manipulate when they are ignorant. The only problem with that tactic is there's always the threat of backfire. It only takes a single voice of reason in their ear to send those carefully constructed lies crashing down. Disillusionment is too often counterproductive to manipulation. And he _is_ manipulating you, you realise."

"You're a liar," Harry said dismissively, but the unease that shifted his weight on his feet was no longer feigned. " _You're_ the manipulator."

"Am I?" Voldemort replied, raising what passed on his hairless, featureless face as an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it, never questioned the man's intentions." Harry didn't respond. "Oh, my. You really haven't." The fiend grinned, a hideous sight, "How amusing. I hate to break it to you, Harry, but you are little more to him than a weapon against me. You are a _tool_ in his aged hand. And one that is quickly losing its usefulness. Your predictability was once to his advantage, and now it's shifted to mine." Harry scowled at him. "Don't you see what he's doing? What he's always done? He dangles you before the masses and spreads word of your heroics in order to placate them, but he never lets them have you completely. He always keeps you well under his wing. Under his _control_. I wonder what the grasping populous would think if they learned the truth. That their 'saviour' is simply mediocre. That he cannot even control his own 'awesome' powers. What would they think if they learned what really happened at the ministry that night, how you needlessly endangered so many of your fellow students and baited your godfather's death-trap?"

"No! That's a lie. It _wasn't_ my fault," Harry bleated.

"Hmm. Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night. Though you're probably right. It wasn't _entirely_ your fault. Though I doubt Dumbledore is nearly as upset by his contribution. It truly was a pity. Black was a very valuable card. Imagine now those same drones discovering that you and Dumbledore were so closely associated with a murderous traitor in the Dark Lord's service. Not very becoming of someone meant to vanquish me."

Rending open such a tender wound as Sirius' death left Harry feeling frail and lost. That Voldemort lamented the loss, as well, forced Harry to abandon his attempt to shift the blame to him. And he had no other readily available scapegoats.

"Understand, Harry," Voldemort continued, looking down at him in some grotesque mockery of gentleness. "I'm not telling you these things merely to wound you. I'm attempting to help you see your position more clearly. All your life, you've been subject to misfortunes; punishments, really, for some unknown crime. Simply being who you are has made you the target of attack, ridicule, abuse, suspicion. Unwanted, _unwarranted_ praise or prejudice. Why, Harry? Why carry this cross for the sake of an unappreciative, undeserving public? Who are you fighting for? Do you really want to be a martyr? You wish to die, like your parents, needlessly? In _vain?_ " At the mention of his parents, Harry's resentment nudged itself back to his attention. Damn the bastard's audacity. "Aren't you tired of being a soldier on the front lines of a war you did not begin and cannot end, following directives you had no hand in deciding and only think you comprehend? You seem to enjoy playing Dumbledore's fool."

"Dumbledore _isn't_ using me," Harry objected hotly. "He's _helping_ me. He cares about-"

"Ha. Cares? If that's affection, I praise the day my heart turned cold. What is he helping you to do, exactly? Prepare for the next potential suicide mission he devises for you? Open your _eyes_ , Harry. He's training you, yes. To do what he'd rather not. Ever since he got you back in his greedy little hands five years ago, he's been moulding you. Don't you remember what happened then?"

"I saved the Philosopher's Stone from _you_ ," Harry replied with cool satisfaction.

"Tsk. Wrong. Do you think he would have ever allowed the Stone to survive if he thought there was any real chance of it falling into my hands? The timing was also very convenient, don't you think? I had lain dormant for years. There had not been a single whisper of my return. No chance of it, really. _Convenient_ that the Stone, one of the only things in existence that was powerful enough to resurrect me, that might tempt me from hiding, just happened to emerge from obscurity in the same year--nay, the very same _day_ \--that The Harry Potter made his entrée back into the Wizarding World. I didn't fully appreciate it at the time, but I've had plenty of opportunity to reflect, now haven't I?" Voldemort stepped toward Harry and bent slightly to look him meaningfully in the eye. "He was showing you to me with that little stunt. And he was _testing_ you."

Harry squinted sceptically at the villain and scoffed lightly, but an icy tremor of doubt played up his spine. "You're full of shite." Voldemort laughed at that, the same cruel, mirthless laughter Harry always heard whenever a Dementor approached. It made Harry shudder.

"Dumbledore's 'protections' surrounding the Stone were far too elementary to be aimed at me. The challenges were set in place for _your_ benefit. And I imagine, considering your limited experience, that your performance was quite heartening, despite that you were aided by others. How tickled he must have been. He set bait for one soldier and snared three."

Despite himself, Harry allowed himself to wonder about Dumbledore's lenience that year. He wondered about the ease with which he'd found the Mirror of Erised, seemingly by accident, while wearing the invisibility cloak given him by the Headmaster, as if it were a kind of endorsed permission slip for Harry to misbehave. Harry wondered why, if the Mirror was as treacherous as Dumbledore made it out to be, it hadn't been better hidden, or why he'd been allowed to visit it several times. Harry looked up at Voldemort, trying to rekindle the revulsion for him he'd felt only moments ago, yet he found himself, instead, waiting anxiously for him to continue.

Voldemort smiled and his eyes danced as he looked at Harry as if he could practically see the thoughts racing through the young man's head. "And when you proved yourself somewhat capable," he went on, beginning to pace leisurely back and forth in front of Harry, never breaking eye contact, "the next year he had you do a bit of housecleaning for him. He could not find the Chamber of Secrets on his own. Merlin knows how many years he'd searched for it in vain. So, he let you find it for him. I wonder that he did not somewhat resent you for that, succeeding where he, the Great Albus Dumbledore, had failed; a bitter sting he'd felt once before. Perhaps that's why he let you exterminate it for him, as well. He gave you the tools to do so, naturally. Much like one supplies a maid with a feather duster. But where was he when you faced certain death down in the cold, wet darkness? Keeping his feet dry, that's where. In more ways than one."

Harry had to repeatedly remind himself that Voldemort was a liar. Harry _knew_ that he was only trying to mislead him, that he would say anything. But Harry had a hard time concentrating on this inner voice. It was overpowered by the one that flowed like blood-soaked silk from the mouth of the man before him.

"He couldn't come," Harry argued, more to himself than to Voldemort. "He'd been suspended. He couldn't..."

"Do you really think a sheet of parchment could keep _Albus Dumbledore_ from any place he truly desired to be? In case you haven't noticed, much like you and me, he has never been one to let frivolous things like rules stand in his way. At least, not when they do not already suit his purposes. Don't be so naive, Harry. It doesn't become you."

"Stop using my name like we're friends or something," Harry blurted peevishly, unsure why it suddenly so agitated him. "I don't like you to use it. It..." _It reminds me too much of talking to Dumbledore._

Voldemort gave Harry an indulgent, condescending chuckle. "Oh, very well. What should I call you then? Potter? But Potter will always be your father to me. And I don't think of you as your father." Harry raised a timid look up at him, almost ashamed of his own childishness in the matter. "You remind me of him, of course, but you are not nearly so hypocritical. Neither do you have his penchant for indifferent cruelty. Prejudice isn't to be reviled only when it doesn't suit one's personal tastes, you know. It's almost a shame Dumbledore got to James before I did." Harry met Voldemort's eye steadily, upset but unsure how much offence he could take at the remarks. After all, Harry knew so little about his father except what he'd seen in photos. And the Mirror.

And what he'd witnessed in the Pensieve.

"So. _Harry_. Are you considering what I'm telling you? Dumbledore would have let you die in the Chamber along with that Muggle-lover's daughter. Just as he would have allowed you and your friends to kill yourselves on that obstacle course he'd devised for you your first year at school."

"You're wrong," Harry said, but the remark lacked conviction.

"All acceptable sacrifices in his grand design. And there have been so many potential sacrifices. Think back to that farce almost two years ago. The Tri-Wizard tournament, 'a positive step toward healthy international relations', an attempt to unify the world against me.

"How does it feel to be bait, Harry?" Voldemort asked in a near whisper, his pacing now a circling, not unlike that of a wistful vulture. A voice from Harry's memory sounded in his ears.

 _A useful distraction. Nothing more_.

"Do you think that, had Barty not beaten him to it, Dumbledore would not have entered your name into the Goblet himself? If he hadn't wanted you to compete, he'd have found a way to remove you. Laws don't exist for men like him. You, your friends, the other champions: all expendable, all sacrifices for the sake of reaching me. He allowed you to participate in those games--those widely publicised games--in order to lure me in."

"No," Harry said quietly, his eyes falling closed.

"Though, he underestimated me. His trap backfired. All these years, he's had you on display, trying to draw me within striking distance. But I humbled him with that stroke, made him rethink his strategy. Afterwards, he tucked you away, hid you as he should have all along _if_ he cared at all for your safety. He's not the omniscient you think him to be. He's learning as we go. Just as you are, just as I am. We're learning from each other, and never so much so as we did that night a few months ago. That night _you_ learned the value of doubt. I learned you no longer merited my concern. And he...he learned that a certain gangly, ungrateful teenager is quickly becoming more trouble than he is worth."

"No. You're lying. I can't trust you," Harry whined, desperate to believe it.

"Dumbledore is no better than I am, Harry. Actually, I'd say he's worse. _He's_ the coward, hiding behind a mask of righteousness. Whereas, I have never made any excuses for what I am. He's just as ruthless as I am, though his real crime is, perhaps not murder, but apathy. He allowed you and that boy to be in the tournament, knowing full well the danger. Counting on it. And so essentially, he allowed that boy to die in front of you."

"No."

"He _allowed_ Sirius Black to fly from his safe haven and to his death."

" _No_."

"And he practically killed your parents himself."

" _Enough!_ " Harry squeezed his eyes shut and brought his palms to his temples, trying to push out Voldemort's voice and the thoughts it elicited, trying to stave off the crushing pain of suspected betrayal. "You're lying. You _are_ false. You... _You're just playing with my head_ ," Harry keened.

"Oh. A game is being played here, Harry," came the slippery voice right at Harry's ear. "But you aren't a competitor any longer." Harry opened his eyes and looked at Voldemort, confused and aching, searching the repulsive visage so close to his own. The cold fire in Voldemort's red eyes flared and Harry stumbled back a small step. "The game being played has nothing to do with right and wrong. It is a game for _power_ , played by the powerful, and played _with_ the lives of the weak. That would be you, by the way. You have always only been a pawn. This battle is between Dumbledore and me."

"What do you want from me? Why am I here?!" Harry bellowed, half mad with the ambivalence that raged in him.

"I only want to help you."

"Bollocks!" Harry spat. "I suppose you've forgotten that you were the one who involved me in this. _You_ killed my parents. You ask who I'm fighting for? All I've ever fought for is my _life_. Because you insist on threatening it!"

"And I'm telling you I might be persuaded to threaten it no longer!" Voldemort hissed, apparently running out of patience with Harry. His voice was sinister and threatening. It chilled Harry to the bone. When the young man appeared sufficiently submissive, quieted without cowering, Voldemort continued; somewhat calmer but no longer making any attempt at benevolence. "I have a proposition for you. I want you to stop being Dumbledore's lackey."

"And what? Join you? Go to Hell," Harry said shakily.

"It is impolite to interrupt," Voldemort said tersely, drawing closer to loom over Harry. " _I_ want nothing to do with you any longer. Which is why we're here."

"But what about the prophecy?"

"It no longer concerns me. I realise now that my belief in it and effort to nullify it was precisely what lead to its partial fulfilment. An annoying trait of prophecies, they usually require some faith in them in order to come to fruition, as though they feed off it. I'll not make that mistake again." It was only then that Harry remembered that Voldemort had never heard the end: _Neither can live._ Otherwise, he had a feeling he wouldn't take the chance of leaving Harry alive, belief or no. Harry quickly pushed the thought from his mind.

"No, I no longer seek to kill you. I would not give Dumbledore that advantage. It's true what I told you. You've become more trouble to the old man than you are worth. The threat to your life now comes from him, not me. He'd be rid of you but will not do the deed himself. It would be so much better for him if I did that for him. Yet another tragedy he could sing about to the public, something he could use to rile them against me. But we won't let that happen, will we, Harry? We mustn't be his puppets."

Even if any of this was true, Harry had no control over any of it. He had never had. "What do you expect me to do about all of this?" he asked, confused, tired.

"Nothing."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Just because I do not thirst for your blood, it does not automatically remove you from this equation. Dumbledore will, as always, try to shepherd you into confrontation with me. Do not let him. Behave, for once in your life. Do what you should have done all this time and look on everything through a lens of doubt and scrutiny. Do not put me in a situation where I have no choice but to end you." Harry was beginning to understand. "I cannot prevent my Death Eaters from protecting themselves or me. And as I've said, their ignorance is what makes them malleable. I could never explain to them the merits of keeping you alive at any cost. So, I say to you: Be a good, inactive little boy and do not meddle in matters you do not understand. And in return, I promise there will be no Dark Marks floating over the houses of you and yours, provided you all stay within them and mind your own business. Do we have a bargain?"

"You want me...to do nothing."

"I always knew you were a sharp one," Voldemort said drolly.

"And if I do nothing, you won't come after me or the Weasleys or the Grangers?"

"That is the proposition."

"But others. You'll kill others."

"You must break eggs, my dear boy, as the saying goes."

Harry stared mutely at Voldemort. This was it. This was the answer to all his prayers, his one chance at freedom. This was his chance to turn his back on it all and be rid of the expectations and fears that haunted his life.

But as often as he'd dreamed of this, now that it was within reach, he didn't know if he could accept it. Regardless of Dumbledore's motives, he didn't torture and kill people. Dumbledore wasn't the tyrant Voldemort was. Harry could imagine the world under Voldemort's reign. Should he win this war, any semblance of peace or democracy would be obliterated. Finally, Harry began to truly understand what freedom meant. It was not the absence of responsibility. Freedom was the willing acceptance of it, for its own sake, for the sake of having the ability to chose one way or the other. The helplessness Harry so detested would soon be absolute should he buckle now. And he slowly realised that he'd never truly been helpless, only indulgent of the delusions of weaker men.

Still, it was hard, so hard, to refuse this. It was difficult to convince himself that his strength had not, in fact, already been spent.

"I...I can't," he finally forced from his lips, closing his eyes.

"Nonsense. Of course, you can. It's so simple, even someone of your ineptitude can master it."

"No. I mean, I won't. I won't be _your_ puppet, either. I won't do anything to help you."

Harry could practically feel Voldemort's momentary rage emanating from him. He seemed to swell, and the walls of the room shook as though they would fall. Harry started but tried not to cower. However, the fiend's mood was short-lived.

"It doesn't matter, really," Voldemort said, sneering smugly. "I'll win in the end. This was simply an attempt to avoid some annoyance on my part. Either you take what I offer, or I take _everything_ from you. You're changing, Harry. I see it in you. I see _myself_ in you. And I'll stoke those fires until they burn down to ash and your heart's as cold as mine. You revile me for a murderer, but I tell you, I will see your hands bloody before this is over; and I will gain more satisfaction from it than you could possibly know." Harry glared at Voldemort, hating him, hating the ring of prophecy in his words. "Either way, I shall win. I don't need your spoken acquiescence right now. We have some time. Think on it, but don't think too long."

As Harry glowered at him, Voldemort began to fade. The stone walls around them broke apart and dissolved. Harry was drifting once again in darkness, and Voldemort's soft laughter echoed through the void.

_Think on it, Harry. Think on it._


	14. Follow That Lord, and Mind You Mock Him Not

Harry woke to a noise like ringing metal, which he saw with his whole body, and which was of a colour that was not a colour but all colours at once without being white. All his senses had somehow become fused. The more he struggled to orient himself in one or the other, the more confused they became. It was only when he surrendered to it that the sensation bled away. Out of the bright, prismatic light, the darkened dimensions of a room carved their shape. As his limbs slowly remembered how to move, Harry concentrated on the sound of someone whispering nearby and the resultant tinkle of glass brushing against glass. Just out of Harry's range of vision, Dumbledore busied himself with repairing the destruction done to his office.

Dumbledore's office. Harry only then came to the realisation he'd never left it. The dungeon cell where he'd met with Voldemort had only been an element of his own mind. It occurred to Harry that that probably meant something, something symbolic and important, but he was in no mood to analyse such subtleties. He found he was draped, uncomfortably so, across Dumbledore's high-backed desk chair. From the angle his head rested against the crook of the armrest, Harry could clearly see the place where Phineas Nigellus' portrait ought to be. But the painting was gone, leaving a glaringly empty space on a wall so densely hung with portraits it otherwise seemed to be constructed from them. Harry stared at the spot, trying to muster some remorse for what he had done, but he soon realised there was none in him to muster. That thought disturbed him far more than thought of the act itself.

"Awake already?"

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder but did not bother to turn and look up at the Headmaster, neither did he offer any apologies for the devastated room.

But then, the room wasn't devastated. Harry glanced around him as much as was possible without moving and noticed that everything had been set right. The shelves were, by comparison, somewhat bare; but to anyone unfamiliar with it, Dumbledore's office might not seem amiss in any way at all. After a silent moment, Dumbledore conjured a gurney, but Harry objected.

"I can walk." His voice sounded strange in his ears, rough and hollow. Dumbledore didn't appear so certain, though he nonetheless vanished the gurney and moved to help Harry to sit up. Again, the boy would have none of it. Unaided, he pushed himself upright and then shakily to his feet, grasping the desk for support. Dumbledore looked concerned but wary, and he stood a step or so away from Harry. Close enough to catch him if he stumbled, but well out of Harry's reach. Did he think Harry volatile, like a bomb that might go off with the slightest mishandling? Remembering the cold rage that had ignited in him earlier, that had erupted _from_ him to lay waste to every fragile thing in sight, Harry wasn't so sure that wasn't the truth. He didn't know himself anymore; his limits, what he was capable of. Worse, he simply didn't care.

"Remus is waiting for you downstairs," Dumbledore offered gently. Of course. There had been a tragedy. Dumbledore was a busy man. He had people to placate, damage to control. To say Harry had been an inconvenience was a gross understatement. Harry sneered, then caught himself and shook those thoughts from his head. They weren't his, were they? Could Voldemort still be lurking somewhere in his head? Harry didn't think so. The loathing that accompanied that presence was gone. Or rather, the only loathing Harry felt now was for himself.

Harry took a step forward but faltered, falling easily into Dumbledore's arms. He must have been far weaker than he had thought. Harry allowed Dumbledore to half bear him, half guide him through the office toward the stair. They were moving steadily toward the lower floors before Harry finally dared to turn and look at the old man. His countenance was sombre, as Harry had often seen it. Though, no longer did the familiar expression seem benign. It looked like a mask, mild but completely closed, masterfully concealing the firestorm of thought Harry knew to be raging behind. Harry sighed. It seemed he was to be left with no object of security. The reassurance he'd always felt at this man's very presence was utterly gone. The arm that supported him, though strong and steady, afforded no comfort. It may as well have belonged to any faceless stranger. It may as well have been made of wood.

The gentle grind of stone on stone echoing up the narrow shaft mercifully lulled these thoughts from Harry's mind. He was so very tired of thinking. He just wanted to be, alone and undisturbed. But as they neared the lowest floor, the hypnotic sound of the stair was interrupted by a broken wail. Unlike Hermione's scream on the train, however, Harry had heard this sound before. Stepping out into the corridor, they were met by a sight that, had Harry been himself, would have taken the heart of him.

Remus and Charlie Weasley flanked Charlie's mother. Her hair was mussed as though she had been tearing at it, and she was so distraught she could not stand on her own. The spectacle was made all the more pathetic by the respective shabbiness of her bastions. Mrs. Weasley's small, chubby hand was clawing at Charlie's worn dragonhide coat and her face was buried in the fur lining, making it a mess where she rubbed her tear-soaked cheek into it. She seemed completely unaware of Remus who was stroking her back consolingly. A disjointed murmuring drew Harry's gaze over to Mr. Weasley who was slumped against the stone sill of a nearby window. He was dishevelled, and his expression was vague and distant as though he didn't really know where he was.

"Molly dear, don't...don't cry. T'will be alright," he murmured to the floor in front of him, his back actually turned to his wife. "We'll come through this somehow. I imagine we'll...we'll..." He trailed off. Fred, standing close by his side, lay a hand on his shoulder and patted lightly. As long as he had known him, Harry had never seen the young man so forlorn. He found it almost frightening to see Fred's normally grinning face so completely devoid of its mischievous light. Mr. Weasley woke to the touch as if only just noticing Fred's approach, but when he lifted his head he didn't turn it to his son. Instead, he muttered to the empty air as though Fred stood before him and not behind.

"Jolly good that you're here. Yes. Your brothers should be here soon, as well. But it's ruddy messy business, apparating across countries. I imagine Bill will have to arrange a portkey, and Charlie-"

"Charlie's here, Dad," Fred reminded him gently. "He's arrived already. You spoke to him, remember?"

"Did I? Oh. Well. Where's your sister? Where's Ginny? Doesn't she know what's happened? Oh, what if she doesn't. I...I don't know how we shall ever break it to her," he muttered sadly. "Such a delicate thing. Where's she got to, then?"

Fred took a deep, patient breath. "She's in the infirmary, Dad. I told you, she's had a nasty bump to the head."

"Oh dear!"

"No, it's _alright_ , Dad," he soothed. "She'll be fine. George is with her. George is watching over her until she wakes up."

Mr. Weasley sighed with relief and nodded slightly. "Good. Good," he mumbled, still to the floor. "Your brother would have liked that. He was always so protective of her. He'd have been with her himself, I'm sure, if he was...i-if he..." With that, Mr. Weasley couldn't say anymore and his voice faded into wheezing sobs, face falling into his hand. Fred patted his shoulder again, eyes scrunched shut with tears of his own. The utter sadness of the scene was so immense Harry couldn't take it all in. 

Bill was on his way, and George was with Ginny in the hospital wing. But that still left one Weasley unaccounted for. Harry scanned the corridor and spied Percy standing slumped and dejected by a torch column, his tear-reddened eyes studying his distraught family members in turn. Timidly, he shuffled over to stand before Mr. Weasley.

"Father?"

Mr. Weasley seemed not to notice his son,mumbling something incoherent. Though, Fred did raise a look to his brother, one decidedly less critical and more forgiving than Harry had seen him grace him with in quite some time. Percy swallowed and turned to shuffle over to his Mother, reaching out a hand as if he might lay it on her arm.

"Mother."

Mrs. Weasley woke to the address, eyes wide as in disbelief. She turned the look on Percy, never releasing Charlie's jacket. "Don't you call me that," she said shakily through her sobs. Percy shook his head in confusion.

"Mother, I don't-"

"This is _your_ fault!" she cried. "Yours and that bungling bastard you worship, _Cornelius Fudge._ You let this happen!"

Percy looked horrified. "Now, _Molly_ ," Remus objected gently, scowling at her, but she paid no more attention to him than before.

"We told you!" she wailed on. "We _told_ you You-Know-Who was back, but you ignored us and got your brother _killed!_ If that...that..." She balled her fist in Charlie's fur as though she meant to tear it out. She couldn't seem to find a name nasty enough for the former Minister. "If _he_ had taken any precautions at all, then this would _never_ have happened. Wanted to feel like big, important men, did you?" she frowned, shaking her head. "You knew it all, didn't you? Well, how does it feel now? How do you like knowing you murdered your own brother!"

" _Mum_ ," Percy whined, lips quivering, and started to timidly reach for her again.

"Don't you touch me!" she screeched. " _You are no son of mine_." It was almost a growl. At first, Percy was too stunned to do anything but stand and gape at her. Finally, he stumbled back, wounded to the core, and turned and fled some ways up the hall away from his mother's venom. "You killed him!" she shouted after him, dissolving into complete hysterics. "You killed my boy!" Fred abandoned his father to help Remus and Charlie calm her. Mr. Weasley turned a dreamy, unfocused gaze over at the ruckus. Molly was only quieted when Bill came running down the corridor, giving a Percy an inquisitive glance as he passed him where he had sunk to his knees and now cried into his hands. Mrs. Weasley subdued instantly as her eldest son strode up to wrap her in a tight, protective embrace.

"What am I going to do?" she moaned into Bill's lapel. "My baby's gone. My baby..."

Harry was speechless. He'd never been a part of a family. He'd never realised just how close the Weasleys were, how deeply they must be hurting now. Harry watched the scene like he was at a cinema, as if strangely detached from it. His heart ached for the family the players portrayed. Harry's heart ached for himself that no one would ever grieve that way for him. It ached until it burst and all feeling slowly bled away from him. He felt cold, though the air was warm. The icy seeds of resentment had been sown in his bleeding heart. They had cauterised it.

When the situation with Mrs. Weasley was resolved, Remus finally had the opportunity to catch sight of Harry and Dumbledore waiting with respectful silence to be noticed. With one last glance at the distraught family to reassure himself he was no longer needed, Remus strode over to them. The look he bestowed on Harry as he approached was one of deepest sympathy and concern, and his eyes crinkled just so at the corners, punctuating the feeling conveyed in his clear, amber eyes. It made Harry shiver. Remus opened his mouth to say something but couldn't seem to find the proper words. There were no proper words, really. So he only wet his lips, as if drawing back the unspoken sentiment in favour of a warm embrace. For some reason, despite the circumstances, Phineas' words woke in Harry's ears.

_"Nancy. Bestial. Faggot."_

_"We were lovers, Harry."_

_"He ruined my lineage and now I imagine he'll want to ruin your father's."_

_"Because Sirius is dead you can't touch me? Because he's dead you can't look at me?"_

_Remus' eyes on him back in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place._

Harry wrenched away from Remus' embrace, a bit more violently than he had intended. Remus didn't try to conceal the hurt on his face as Harry shied again when he reached out to him a second time for a milder contact. Harry turned his head sheepishly, almost ashamed of himself, but was unrelenting in his determination that the man would not touch him.

"Remus, would you?" Dumbledore asked tactfully. "I really must," he elaborated, gesturing toward the gathering down the hall. Remus, though still distracted by the exchange with Harry, pulled his questioning gaze from the young man's face long enough to nod vaguely at the Headmaster.

"Yes, of course."

Dumbledore released Harry, and when satisfied the youth could stand on his own, strode swiftly over to the Weasleys.

"Well," said Remus softly, still visibly shaken by Harry's rejection. "Let's get you to the hospital wing, shall we?"

"No," Harry said plainly. He didn't want to be surrounded by more weeping, wounded people. Besides, he wasn't hurt, just tired, and weakly he told Remus so.

"I'll see you to your dormitory then," Remus offered understandingly. Harry shook his head. He didn't want to see his roommates, either. He didn't think he could bear the sight of Ron's empty bed next to his. Remus, patient but at a loss, shook his head. "Where would you go then, Harry?" The gentle affection in his voice made Harry wince.

He didn't know where he wanted to go, or where he could go. But he knew he couldn't stand here in the hallway all evening. He had to make his decision quickly, though, as the Weasleys were approaching en mass, shepherded by Dumbledore toward his office. Harry simply could not bear to speak with any of them. Panic and despair blossomed in him. He didn't have it in him to figure this one out, he didn't have the energy or the will. He only wanted to stand and do nothing and have things somehow work themselves out without him having to make any kind of effort at all. If only he could be so fortunate.

And that's when something stirred in the shadows to Harry's left.

There was Professor Snape, rigid as ever but, surprisingly, not so severe. He looked down on Harry with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. It was neither pitying nor mocking, which almost made Harry dread what the man seemed about to say even more. But his fear was soon replaced with surprise.

"Follow me," was all Snape said in a low, mild tone before turning to glide down the corridor. Neither Harry nor Remus questioned him. The timbre of his voice had cast a sort of spell on Harry's muscles so that they carried him forward with no regard for Harry's own wishes. He was so weak, he was surprised he even still stood. Yet there he was, moving after Snape, pulled down the corridors as if on an invisible leash. Remus' hand hovered near Harry's back, propelling him forward as surely as Snape pulled him. Harry was grateful for it, though. Like magnets turned at wrong ends, Harry's reluctance of Remus' touch helped steady him more surely than if Remus had actually held him.

Harry was strangely grateful for all of it, really. He was so content to be led, to exist for a moment in the absence of any kind of decision, that they were well within the dungeons before he even took note of their surroundings or wondered on their destination. Snape's classroom lay at the edge of the dungeons, and Harry had only ventured further into them on one occasion. But it seemed they had already moved well past the Slytherin common room. Glancing about him in some state slightly more neutral than curiosity, Harry wondered vaguely how the Slytherins ever managed to navigate this labyrinth. There were no portraits on the walls, no suits of armour or statues. Each shadowed and sinister passage looked the same. Harry was lost. He realised with a strange kind of cool acceptance that he now relied entirely on the man before him and his seeming intrinsic knowledge of this place. Snape moved smoothly through the corridors, never vacillating on which turn to make or when. Harry tried to follow Snape with as much confidence as the man exuded himself but eventually decided it best not to think on it at all. Never mind the route. Just follow. Don't lose sight of the billowing, swishing figure. Though, Harry couldn't help thinking. He couldn't stop himself from musing about how perfectly suited Snape was to this environment. It was as oppressive and mysterious and subtly dangerous as he was. Though somehow, just at the moment, neither bothered Harry. This place suited his mood. Dark places were good for dark thoughts and dark moods. And the way Harry was feeling now, he thought he might not care to see the sun ever again.

Finally, Snape halted before a depression in the corridor wall, identical to several they had passed already, and cast an uneasy glance at Harry as though loath to reveal too much to him. Harry tried to express, with his unfocused, half-lidded stare, that he couldn't care less about Snape's secrets and only wanted to reach the end of their little quest before he collapsed. Still, Snape regarded him a few moments more before delivering the password in a rushed, unintelligible whisper. As though the stones had been mist stirred aside by a breath of wind, a door appeared in the depression. Snape tapped it once with his wand and it fell open without a sound. He strode inside as though it was simply understood the two should follow.

Harry was slightly hesitant to step over the threshold. It was fairly obvious that they were in Snape's private quarters, but why in blazes? Harry was suddenly not quite so apathetic but left off wondering why he'd been brought here to take in his surroundings. Snape's rooms looked much as Harry might have imagined them, should he have previously given them any thought at all. The sitting room (if it could really be considered that, seeing as there was nothing to sit on save one wooden stool, and it stood before the desk in the corner) was plain. Utterly. The only signs of habitancy were the few neat stacks of parchments on the desktop beside a recently lit lamp. There was a small bookshelf packed with very old, very well-read books, but most of the titles were impossible to read for a thick layer of dust that covered all but a few of them. There wasn't even a rug on the stone floor. It was bare except for the well-travelled paths worn into the stones that led from the door to the desk, and from the desk to one of the doors leading from the sitting room which Harry guessed to be Snape's bedroom. There was no cosy chair by the fireplace, and the fireplace itself looked as though it had never been used, though an empty jar of floo powder did sit on the mantle. Seeing the bare hearth somehow made Harry cold.

Remus radiated heat near Harry's elbow, but that was a heat Harry was avoiding, and so he moved aside to let Remus through the door. The man passed Harry and strode to the centre of the room, appearing either very familiar with the place or else completely uninterested. He regarded Snape with a gentle question in his eyes, but the other man ignored him and spoke to Harry.

"This way," he prompted curtly, opening a door that was not one the worn path led to; and so curiosity (or was it spite?) turned Harry's gaze to the other. It was open only a crack, but Harry spied several heavy locks, all of which latched from the inside. Snape followed Harry's gaze and swiftly strode over to shut the other door with a snap, casting Harry a sharp look. " _This_ way," he repeated, his voice almost threatening, as he moved back to Harry's door and pushed it open further.

"Is that your bedroom, then?" Harry asked waving a finger at the door with the locks.

"And just how many bedrooms do you think I have here in Snape Manor?" the Potions Master clipped with a roll of his eyes. Harry was confused. Snape waved his wand impatiently and a lamp ignited in the room Harry was meant to enter, revealing a bed and nightstand. Remus nodded his head, urging Harry forward.

This new room was as plain as the other. White sheets shone under a dull, grey wool blanket. It appeared Snape expected Harry stay here, to sleep here, in his quarters. In his bed. In this _cell_ , and Harry couldn't decide if the man was being generous or punishing.

"But where will you sleep?" Harry asked, eyeing the small bed.

"You ask as though you care, Mr. Potter," Snape replied wryly before disappearing. He returned momentarily carrying a small phial which he pushed into Harry's hand. "Drink this." Before Harry could even inquire what it was, Snape had already left again. Harry turned in time to catch a glimpse of Remus giving him a concerned but reassuring look just before Snape shut the door between them with an echoing clank not unlike that of prison bars.


	15. Grating So Harshly All His Days of Quiet

The Dreamless Sleep Draught Snape gave him worked as well as any Pomfrey ever had. Though Harry supposed that stood to reason. Snape must be responsible for stocking the infirmary stores, and Harry had taken more than his fair share of all those cupboards had to offer. It was no small wonder the man was so easily exasperated by him. Keeping up with all of Harry's various mishaps, medicinally and otherwise, was likely a full-time job in itself. And so Harry also supposed Snape had been his saviour more times over than he had previously reckoned, if only in a less direct way. It wasn't as if the man was gracious about it. Harry could practically hear Snape grumbling about his carelessness as he bottled yet more salve for the infirmary. Of course, it wasn't as if Harry had asked the greasy git to go above and beyond. He certainly didn't like Snape ghosting his steps and nosing into his business. Harry quite felt he could do without that kind of assistance, and as far as the medicine was concerned, well, Harry didn't enjoy taking it or having occasion to any more than Snape did making it. As Harry threw back a second round of the draught, having been awake for a whole ten minutes (too long) he wondered that Snape even bothered. But then, he supposed it was a matter of necessity. He wondered, too, why he was even so concerned with the matter just now. Though, it seemed better to fume on this than to surrender to the nagging of the several other, even less pleasant thoughts from the back of his mind where he intended to keep them locked.

Each time Harry woke, a fresh phial of the potion was waiting for him on the tiny bedside table, as was a tray of food likely magicked to stay warm until he woke to consume it.  Though, the latter of these Harry invariably ignored. Eating held absolutely no interest, and he doubted he could keep anything down for very long. Just smelling the steaming broth and buttered bread sitting so close sickened him, and he was tempted more than once to fling it toward the far wall. There were times, as well, when he felt like doing the same to the potion. He was so thoroughly irritated by the thought that they were keeping him sedated like some psychotic on the closed ward. He didn't suppose he could blame them, really. Harry didn't know himself what he might do or was capable of doing, though that did little to lessen the insult. Perhaps his potentially dangerous condition was why Snape was keeping such distance and was not found stooping over him with an irritated, impatient glare, demanding that he eat. Not that it would have done him much good. Harry would only have told him to take his food and his potion and put them where the sun didn't shine, and he wouldn't be referring to the dungeons. And so it was fortunate that Snape left Harry alone, because in the end, Harry always found there was nothing for it. He didn't _want_ to ignore the draught. Instead, he'd like to drink it by the bucket. When Harry was awake, his body screamed for food it wouldn't tolerate. When he was awake, his mind raced all too quickly toward things he wasn't prepared to confront; and he feared what dreams might come should it ever slow sufficiently to allow him natural sleep.

After a few more potions, a few more awakenings to the same tableau, Harry's rancour toward his professor dulled a bit. Ideally, he knew Snape intended Harry to consume both offerings, though there were never any nasty notes admonishing him for his untouched plate. Realistically, it seemed he was giving Harry a choice, and for this, Harry could not be ungrateful.

There were no windows in his small subterranean prison, no clocks ticking on the wall, no way at all to reckon the passage of time. It was always night here, and Harry had no idea how long he'd been cloistered. He didn't particularly care. Time became abstract, not the rigid, harsh thing he'd known it to be when there were things like classes to attend and meals to be taken and schedules to be obeyed. Time was a lulling, indifferent sea in which he drifted on a fickle tide of consciousness. There was little to ground Harry in the here and now, whatever that was, save for the occasional bit of noise from the other rooms. There was never much to be heard, save the turning of locks or the scratch of quill on parchment.

Though once, Harry woke to the sound of voices. Snape's low timbre cared well through the empty rooms. That voice was so very relaxing. It might have caressed Harry back to sleep, should he have been able to ignore the words, which he could not. At first, in his grogginess, Harry thought the man might have been talking to himself. And his amusement at this possible eccentricity was enough to make him listen more closely, at which time Harry noticed a second voice. This other voice was echoic and distant. Too much so to be blamed on the stone walls. Harry realised it must be coming from within the hearth. Considering this, the second voice was far too soft-spoken for Harry to decipher a word, but somehow he recognised--or rather simply knew somehow--that it belonged to Remus. Harry wondered fleetingly at the shiver that ran up his spine with the recognition, though he told himself it must only be due to the knowledge that the two men were speaking about him.

"I don't know that we shouldn't just tell the boy and have done with it," Snape complained, obviously quite put out. "He's too bloody nosy to remain oblivious for much longer. If nothing else, thanks to you and that little stunt you pulled with them in class, Granger will no doubt put two and two together soon enough and spell it out for him. There's no knowing what he might do when that happens without someone there to administer the proper threats." Remus' reply was indistinct but reproachful.

"Oh, all right, the proper _warnings_. Though I do think it might be wise to put a bit of fear into him. He obviously doesn't appreciate the simple concept of consequence, or how great they would be in this situation."

He wasn't sure, but Harry thought Remus was defending him. He suppressed his gratitude, however, like an altar boy quells a lustful thought at Mass. He was still quite too sleepy to remember why he felt the need.

"Treating him like an adult does not automatically make him one," Snape argued. Harry could hear the sneer of disgust in his voice. "Merlin knows you lot should have figured this out by now." Remus was arguing again. Harry felt compelled to listen at the door but convinced himself it was his still sleep-heavy limbs that deterred him, not his fear that he might actually be eager to hear the sound of Remus' voice (and not his words) more clearly.

"Yes, of course, I know the Headmaster's stance on the issue, and as in several others, I do not quite agree."

Why on earth did Remus sound so worried? What were they talking about? What was it Harry shouldn't know?

"Well, it _is_ your responsibility to prepare the boy in these matters, Lupin," Snape said, sounding somewhat resigned. "And it is a lesson he will need to learn. I've persuaded Loraina here, but…" Remus interrupted, sounding absolutely adamant about something.

"No. But there are other ‘free agents’, and the Dark Lord has commissioned me personally to seek them out and sway them to his cause...just as before." Whatever Snape was referring to, he seemed extremely bitter about it; more so than Harry could ever recall him being before, which was saying quite a bit. "I cannot fail at it forever. Either I will have to go about the errand earnestly to avoid suspicion, or the Dark Lord will find another to do it in my stead. And I think you might understand why I'd rather that not happen." Harry thought he might as well, remembering Bella's cry in the Ministry, " _MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED-DO NOT PUNISH ME!"_   Harry was just now comprehending the situation Snape must be putting himself in on the Order's behalf. At Dumbledore's request.

_Severus, you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready...if you are prepared..._

Harry was finding his forced indifference toward the Headmaster was turning to dislike, despite that he was trying desperately to will it otherwise.

"As it is," Snape continued to Remus, with Harry listening more intently, now. "I've claimed my duties here are too demanding for me to travel abroad, and the Dark Lord certainly doesn't want to compromise my position in relation to the Headmaster." Snape's voice became dark and dreading, "But he will succeed in this Lupin, with my help or no. He's already made progress with the werewolves, as I'm sure you may be aware. The half races are resentful toward Wizardkind, ripe for this conversion, and the Dark Lord is all too conscious of this. Surely you understand it. I understand it perfectly myself, and were my personal circumstances otherwise…" Was Remus being accusing? That was a rarity.

"Of course, not," Snape spat in response. "You know where my loyalties lie. And you know ruddy well _why_. Don't be ridiculous." Yes, that apologetic tone suited Remus much better, Harry thought.

"Well, I have no suggestions on how else to proceed except just as we have been. Though mark my words, that boy will be the death of me, if not us all.... Spare me. You are as stubborn as your flea-bitten former compatriots…. Oh, so be it," Snape clipped sardonically. "Potter is brilliant and discerning and will be our bloody saviour. Now if you will excuse me, I have to slave over our fearless knight-in-bloody-armour's fresh batch of bottled coma."

Harry was rather impressed that Remus could convey so much hostility without uttering a word. Remus suddenly was gone, and there was a slamming of heavy doors and the turning of locks that rang in the abrupt stillness. With no hesitation whatsoever, Harry reached over and seized his ration of 'bottled coma', unstopping it and downing it to the very last drop.


	16. To Sleep Perchance To Dream

The problem with not dreaming, Harry realised, is that one wakes to the thoughts they went to sleep with. It was almost like blinking an hours-long blink, and the madness he sought to escape through unconsciousness was waiting for him when he woke like a demon perched on his bedpost. The sleep brought by the draught was only for his body. It was his mind that kept him bedridden.

There was simply too much to process, too many doubts and fears and thoughts and questions and memories. Harry couldn't distinguish them anymore. They lost their form and became mental and emotional static, and his impulses toward them were so numbered and contrary that he couldn't do anything at all. He wanted to scream, and to cry, and to laugh all at the same time, but he couldn't, and so he did none of them at all. For hours at a time, he lay staring at his ceiling, unable to even reach over and fumble blindly for the potion. It didn't drive away the noise in his brain. It only delayed it by some degree that Harry could not even measure. He would blink, and it would be back.

Harry would have thought himself crazy were it not for the very calm, clear, reasonable voice in the back of his mind telling him so. Crazy people don't know they are crazy, do they? They can't be so objective about it. So surely, the voice that reasoned he was going insane was proof that he wasn't. Not yet. Not entirely.

Coincidently, it was this same voice that convinced Harry to stop taking the potion. It wasn't helping anything, after all, was it? And once he stopped taking the draught, Harry started to sleep. Real sleep. And at least the nightmares that came had some shape, some sense of coherence, even if it couldn't quite be grasped after waking.

That voice also convinced him to start eating, told him he might as well, since it seemed obvious that he wouldn't succeed in simply willing his heart to stop beating. If he couldn't die by laying, if he had to continue, he should eat so he could one day be strong enough to stop his heart properly by more proven means.

However, once Harry started eating and sleeping real sleep, which gave his madness an avenue of release through dreams where it could define itself and so play itself out, Harry began to feel better. He couldn't quite say when the potion stopped appearing with his meals, but eventually, Harry realised that it had. And then those stopped coming, too, and in their place, Harry found a fresh change of clothes with a note directing him to the washroom as 'obviously he'd been too lazy to locate it himself before now.'

Harry wasn't entirely sure he was ready for this, to pick up where he left off and resume his 'normal' routine. Yet, there was something extremely sobering about peeling back his sheets and discovering he was still fully dressed in the outfit he'd donned the morning he'd left Grimmauld Place. That morning seemed so long ago, Harry might otherwise have thought he'd dreamed it. Seeing the mud on his trouser knees where he'd landed outside the train was almost unreal, like waking from a dream and finding a glass slipper in one's pocket. Or more fittingly, like waking from a nightmare and finding a corpse in one's bed.

Feeling decidedly and unpleasantly in need of a wash, Harry rolled out of bed, undoing buttons as he went, shedding his clothes with many-levelled revulsion. Within moments he had stripped completely and tossed the things aside along with all remaining thoughts of what had happened while he had worn them, like a snake shedding its skin, sloughing off what no longer served him in order to forge his armour anew. Harry wondered if Snape might burn them. He wouldn't put it past the man. Harry hoped he would.

Oblivious to the chill dungeon air on his bare skin, Harry gathered his clean clothes and made for the door. When the knob turned easily in his hand, Harry was more than a little surprised. Had it only been his fancy that it had ever been locked in the first place? Had he made himself a prisoner? Stepping through the door didn't feel like escape, really. More like his cell had simply been expanded.

According to the note, the bathroom was to be found behind the third door which Harry had previously mistaken to be a wardrobe. Having located it, however, Harry's need of a wash lost its sense of urgency. The curiosity he felt when first he'd stepped into this room was renewed by the lamp shining beckoningly on the corner desk, and Harry shifted his bundle to one arm and ambled over to investigate.

So this was where all those caustic remarks scrawled on Harry's schoolwork, outlining his ineptitude, had been composed all these years. This was where Snape graded, where the Snark Muse resided, perched on the handle of the modest-looking scroll top to whisper in Snape's ear, his own personal thesaurus of offence. The desktop was covered even now with neat piles of essays. Harry thumbed through them. Sheet after sheet of scrawled, ink-spotted and smudged parchment still glistened with red ink like fresh blood, having been recently and thoroughly eviscerated by the Potions Master's merciless quill. It seemed Snape felt little inclination to lighten his lesson plan in light of recent events. Harry would be behind when he started back to classes. These particular essays, though, were First Years', and Harry mused on the simplicity of the subject matter he had struggled with his own first year. Amazing really. Harry hadn't been aware he'd ever really learned anything in Snape's class. He certainly hadn't intended to. Making it through the bi-weekly ordeal in the dungeons had seemed more a matter of survival than one of education. Though apparently, he'd absorbed the facts presented despite himself. They were inexorably connected to particular remarks Harry could never forget.

_Only a simpleton could confuse Cardamon, a warming agent, with Cascara, an anti-inflammatory. Really, Mister Potter, your idiocy astounds me sometimes, even in comparison to our Mister Longbottom, here._

Harry scanned the essays idly, his lip twitching into an almost-smile at one boy's misinterpretation of the use of Asphodel and Snape's cutting remarks in response. A new generation was getting their first taste of his bittersharp brand of teaching. Harry might almost have felt sorry for them if he had been capable of summoning any kind of feeling at all just then.

Growing bored of the essays, Harry's eyes wandered over to the nearby bookshelf. It was small but heavily laden with books of every size, colour, and thickness. A half a centimeter of dust obscured many of the names, and Harry reached out a single finger to push it aside, almost surprised the ancient bindings didn't fall way with the grey powder. Title after title was uncovered by his irreverent digit as though he were prodding the slumbering old tomes back to life. He needed Hermione, he thought. Most all of these names were in Latin. She could decipher them easily enough. At the moment, however, it was simply beyond Harry. There were a few in what resembled English, though. _To Drenk of the Rivre Styx. Siense of the Blod. Slave of Deth._ Trust Snape to keep something so morbid so close at hand.

Harry's inspection was interrupted by a small clank that echoed in the stillness behind him. He spun toward it, eyeing all of the doors suspiciously, but the only one not shut tight was his own. Both the noise and the books were promptly forgotten when Harry's gaze fell on the mysterious locked door. Harry's willpower had not recovered enough for him to ignore this temptation, and he felt himself drawn toward it. Anything Snape felt compelled to secure so thoroughly was surely worth a peek. Pressing his ear to the wood, Harry could hear absolutely nothing going on on the other side of it. He stepped back and gave the door an appraising look as if sizing up an opponent. With Snape apparently gone, he might manage to get it open if he worked quickly enough. Though, knowing Snape, it was likely sealed with more than just locks. Harry hesitated, not quite sure he was willing to exert the energy needed to get past those things. The stickiness of his thighs against one another as he shifted his weight on his feet reminded him that he was still in need of a bath, and also that he was presently standing in the middle of Snape's quarters completely starkers, with no furniture to leap behind should his host suddenly return.

Harry sighed and turned toward the washroom again but failed to make more progress than that. His curiosity gnawed at him, and he glanced over his shoulder at the door's handle, soon finding his hand moving toward it, more of its own volition than any decision of Harry's. It was locked anyway, so it couldn't hurt to try to turn it, could it? Just once. Just to placate his impulse. When he heard the click of the latch releasing, Harry dropped his clothes in surprise. That wasn't supposed to have happened. What was he supposed to do now? Harry stood there for what seemed like forever, holding the knob in place, debating. Finally, he wet his lips and glanced nervously over both shoulders, as though making sure he was really alone. Slowly and carefully, Harry brought his foot up to brace himself against the frame and pulled.

With some effort, the door gave a fraction of an inch. Harry swallowed and took a deep breath. One good yank, that was all he'd need, and the door would be open. But even as he mustered his determination, the door pulled out of his grasp, suddenly snapping shut again. Harry gasped and sprang back as no less than four locks turned loudly and in quick succession, and a loud bang sounded, as of a crossbar falling into place. After he recovered, Harry clamoured forward to retrieve his fallen clothes and scrambled ungracefully for the washroom door, which he slammed shut and locked behind him, pressing the entire length of his body against it until his heart stilled. Harry waited for it, but no other sound came from the sitting room. Nothing was coming to punish him. No Snape. Gradually, Harry allowed himself to relax. And then, having done so, Harry realised he had to piss. Very badly.


	17. These Are But Wild and Whirling Words

Harry positioned himself over the toilet on unsteady legs. It was clear the deed would not be done quickly, and Harry propped himself in place with one hand on the back of the tank, letting his head sink between his shoulders. He left his body to relieve itself and wondered a bit on Snape and what he would do when he found out Harry had been snooping; should he find out at all. If he did, he'd probably flay him. Though, Harry reasoned it might have been worth it. He'd been so close, and the incident had left him feeling almost giddy; alive. Pity the sensation couldn't have lasted longer. It seemed to drain out of him with the steady yellow stream into the dusty bowl below him.

And the bowl was very dusty. Harry lifted his hand from the tank and saw his fingers were coated with it, too. Odd. The toilet didn't look dirty, really, so much as unused. As did everything else in the small room now that Harry took the time to look around him. As he gave himself a final shake, he glanced over at the taps of the bathtub faucet and saw them covered in rust, wondering if they even still turned or when was the last time they had been. It looked to be a while. Considering Snape's eternally greasy hair, Harry could not say he was exactly surprised.

However, they did turn, and with a minimum of creaking, and the water they dispensed ran warm and clear.

It's interesting how one can not quite realise just how weary they are until they lower themselves into a hot bath. Though he had literally just slept for days (or perhaps because of it), Harry found he was exhausted. That short but extreme burst of terror likely hadn't helped matters, either. Harry felt as though he'd just fought an epic battle. In a way, he reasoned, perhaps he had.

Harry relaxed back against the cool wall of the tub and let his stiffness dissolve into the steaming water, resolving to never move again. Snape apparently didn't use this room. The greasy git could just stride his little paths back and forth from his desk to his room of mysteries, and Harry could become a fixture he ignored like the shampoo and faucets. Harry actually smiled at his little fantasy, began convincing himself it was a good and practical plan…until the water went cold, and he realised he'd have to move anyway, either retrieve his wand and magic it warm or else to refresh the water manually. He opted for the latter as it demanded much less effort, using his toes to tug at the drain plug and work the faucets. The newly warm water revived his paralytic daydreams, and Harry leaned his head back and dozed.

_The train wasn't moving._

Because the train wasn't made to move. The train was made of stone, cold and hard under his bare feet, dark grey and forbidding like the bricks of the dungeons. Everything was made of them, even the seats and the compartment door that could never be closed. Confused, Harry wandered out of his little room and looked out of the corridor window, wondering where he was.

The low light from the sconces, ones that looked as though they had been thieved from the walls of Grimmauld Place, leaked through the cracked and dirty glass but fell on nothing. The light only bled away to nothing into the thin darkness without. Harry felt his heart beat harder before he recognised the fear creeping over him. There was something he ought to be doing, someone he ought to be looking for. Harry peered down the carriage corridor which seemed to have no end. Both directions looking exactly the same, Harry decided on his right and began searching. His inspection was slow and thorough at first but soon built until he was running headlong down the narrow passage, quickly scanning each compartment as he passed.

"Ron?" he called, but he was answered only by his own echo. "Ron!" Amid the slap of his feet on the stone and the blood rushing in his ears, Harry came to notice a small noise and froze, struggling to make it out over his own panicked breathing. It sounded almost like…Yes. Someone was crying, faintly, somewhere far behind him.

No. No, surely it wasn't too late. Harry turned and sprinted back the way he came but got nowhere. The carriage seemed to simply extend in front of him, the floor expanding beneath his feet so that two doors appeared beside him for every one he should have already passed. Defeated, Harry stumbled to a stop and fell to his knees, hanging his head, and began to weep more easily and freely than he had ever in his life. "There's too much," he moaned. "Ron. I'm sorry. There are just too many."

The crying still sounded, though it took a moment for Harry to realise it was louder now, and that it was not simply his own echoing back at him. Casting his down-turned eyes to the compartment beside him, Harry spied a figure kneeling within. Hesitantly, Harry stopped crying and drew himself to his feet to creep closer.

"Hermione?"

But it wasn't Hermione. A fair head bobbed between narrow, slumped shoulders.

"Malfoy," Harry growled. And Malfoy lifted his silver head, turning to Harry, a malicious grin splitting his pale face. He wasn't crying at all. He was laughing.

"What have you done with her?" Harry demanded, taking the boy roughly by both arms and wrenching him to his feet. But Malfoy only laughed harder until Harry, incensed, began to shake him. He shook him so violently that his slicked hair fell in stiff clumps into his pointed face, so violently Harry was sure he would soon snap the boy's thin neck. "Answer me, damn you!"

"It-It's too late!" Malfoy finally managed between sniggers. Harry held him still so he could continue, but Malfoy only sneered as though the gesture disgusted him and said, "You're so bloody predictable, Potter."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry snapped. "What are you talking about? Why did you say it was too late? Too late for what?"

Malfoy grinned triumphantly. "It's too late because our traitorous master is dead already," he said with a derisive snort. "He has been since before you were born. Still, the both of you should fetch our forgiveness from the Dark Lord."

Harry shook his head, not understanding, and dropped Malfoy to the ground like a piece of dripping rubbish. "You're mad," he said, shaking his head. "You're completely raving."

Malfoy's only answer was to point up at Harry and begin laughing again, on and on until Harry almost gave into his urge to start kicking him. But even as he drew his foot back with a snarl, a sharp rap sounded on the stone frame of the compartment door. Harry turned to find Snape standing calmly in the corridor. _When did he get here?_

"Let me in, Harry."

"But if I do that, you'll kill me," Harry replied, wondering how he knew this.

"It will kill you if you don't. Let me in, Harry."

Harry was disconcerted. Malfoy still cackled from the floor at his feet. Snape knocked again.

"Harry." Knock knock knock.

"What is going on?!" Harry bellowed, bringing his hands to his ears. Malfoy wheezed for breath. Snape rapped again.

"Let me in, Harry."

"But I can't!"

"Yes you can, Harry. You must."

Malfoy was laughing harder than ever.

"No! I mean I can't let you in. There's no door! What are you waiting for?"

"You have to invite me."

"What? Why?" Ha ha ha ha ha! Knockknockknock

"WHAT'S GOING ON? Have you all gone mad?! This doesn't make any sense!"

HahaknockhahaknockHAHAHAKNOCK!

"Just go away!"

_Knock knock KNOCK_

Harry woke with a start. He was freezing. The water he sat in had long since gone cold and he shivered, shaking the strange dream from his head as he leaned forward to pull the plug to replace it. But a sharp, loud knock at the bathroom door startled him and made him drop the chain.

"Harry! Harry, answer me! Are you alright! Harry, let me in," came a frantic, muffled voice on the other side of the door. The knob rattled as though someone was trying to rip it off. Harry had to take a moment to still his nerves, but it was cut short when it sounded as though Remus had had enough and was attempting to break down the door.

"I'm here! Remus, I'm all right," Harry called testily. Sudden silence, and then finally Harry thought he heard a ragged, relieved sigh and a body falling to rest against the door.

Then, just as testily, "What on earth-"

"I dozed off," Harry explained before Remus could set in. "I was sleeping."

"Sleeping? Harry, I've been pounding on this door for ages."

Whoa. Harry must have been more comfortable than he had thought. "I'm sorry?" he called back. More silence and then another weary sigh.

"That's dangerous, you know. You might have-"

"Give me five more minutes," Harry cut him off, reaching for his soap. He'd had enough of his bath but might as well do what he'd come to before abandoning it. With no other objections, Harry heard Remus pull himself off the door, his footsteps fading toward the sitting room. Certain he was going to be unbothered for a moment, Harry refreshed his water one last time.

When he was finished, Harry found Remus was waiting patiently in the sitting room with his hands held courteously behind his back, studying Snape's bookshelf from a generous distance, almost like someone viewing exhibits in a museum. Harry almost felt guilty now for riffling through everything but had to wonder just when Remus had acquired so much respect for Snape and his belongings. Though, perhaps that was exactly Remus' way: to stay neatly out of other people's affairs, to not dirty his hands, even if it meant letting his friends harass harmless schoolmates without provocation.

Harry checked himself. Since when had he started sympathising with Snape? He quickly reminded himself of his and the Potions Master's mutual hatred, though he unconsciously tugged at his baggy trousers to cover his own embarrassingly threadbare pants.

Letting his still wet bare feet hit the stone floor with a slap as he moved further into the sitting room, Harry finally announced his presence to Remus who turned to him with a politely expectant expression. Harry wasn't sure what kind of response he had anticipated from the man. Perhaps he hadn't been consciously aiming for one at all. He'd had no towel. That was the real reason he'd refrained from pulling on anything besides his loose fitting trousers. He preferred to dry before struggling into his shirt and shoes. He had no ulterior motives. So why was he so disappointed when he saw only polite apology in Remus' eyes as they grazed his form indifferently before seeking out Harry's own with a slight, forced smile?

"I'm sorry for earlier," Remus began with gentle sincerity. "When you didn't answer, I was afraid…"

 _Afraid what? That you'd find me in shallow, red-stained water still clutching the broken piece of mirror I'd slit my wrists with?_ Slightly unlikely. Snape didn't have a mirror.

Remus looked away from Harry, wet his lips, and took a breath, choosing his words carefully. Harry thought he looked awfully tired. "How are you?" he asked softly. When he pulled his eyes back to Harry's, Harry saw only compassion in them. It frustrated the young man for some reason, though his closed expression didn't change as he regarded Remus for a beat longer as though giving the man a chance to add to the question somehow before he finally looked away. Harry swallowed and shook his head faintly.

"Severus told us you were up and about again," Remus seemed suddenly compelled to confess, drawing Harry's attention again. "If you feel up to it, there's still time to join some of the others for breakfast. It's not quite over. If you'd like, that is."

It really was just that simple, wasn't it? The rest of the world functioned normally just a short stroll away, and all Harry had to do was go and join it. Harry stared silently at Remus for a long while, and the two seemed to search each other's countenance for some sort of answer, the only difference being that Harry wasn't sure of his question. "I'll have to at some point, won't I?" Harry asked in a dull voice, though he answered himself before Remus had a chance. "I suppose I should just get on with it, then."

Remus nodded thoughtfully, though neither moved. Harry cast his gaze to the floor as though searching for his suddenly elusive determination there. Saying what he was about to do was far simpler than actually doing it. Harry didn't quite know where to begin. Though, he supposed it might do to finish dressing. He was dry enough.

Without bothering to find a room, Harry put his arms through his sleeves and yanked them to his elbows before lifting his arms to pull his shirt over his head. And that's when he saw it. He had unexpected difficulty, but when he finally managed to wrestle the thing over his dishevelled cranium, Harry just caught Remus' stare, hungrily chasing the last of Harry's bare flesh as it disappeared beneath his t-shirt.

Harry didn't smirk, though felt like it. He only stared at Remus, waiting for him to realise he'd been caught. And when Remus' eyes met Harry's, his cheeks did colour if only a bit. But there was no apology left in his slightly shock-widened gaze. Surely he knew now that Harry knew. Harry knew his terrible secret. But having been discovered he held his ground. Harry was slightly shocked himself at how open Remus looked. Not quite challenging, not even inviting, but adopting a manner that seemed to say quite plainly that he would face whatever question or condemnation that came from the young man.

Harry didn't confront him. Quite strangely, the anger he'd felt at Remus' suspicioned intentions dissolved now that it had been confirmed. Harry wasn't sure what he was feeling now. Embarrassed? Anxious? Not really. Giddy perhaps. The moment turned very awkward, and Harry, unsure what else to do, looked away and bent to pull on his shoes.

"Okay then," he said, straightening again. With no other conversation, Remus led the way out of the dungeons.


	18. For I Mine Eyes Will Rivet to His Face, We Will Both Our Judgments Join

Chapter art by CaptainSnot

In truth, Remus escorted Harry more than he led him, as Harry was possessed of a sudden boldness and dared to walk at Remus' side rather than trail along behind him. As they travelled, Harry caught himself, several times, chancing glances over at his guardian; and he scolded himself each time as he was, more than once, caught in the act by Remus. Though eventually, Harry noticed that half of the time Remus' eyes were simply already turned his way. Harry wondered at the blush that rose to his cheek at that, but he was more concerned with the fact that the looks they happened to share were mutually curious and tended to linger perhaps only a bit too long. As a result, Harry once almost collided with a wall as Remus shepherded him into a turn. A turn that was revealed to be an incorrect one soon after, and Remus was forced to fish in his breast pocket for a scrap of parchment to consult.

The parchment was very tattered, though not particularly old by Harry's guess. It simply looked to have been opened and refolded several times. As Remus held it up, looking about him and trying to reorient himself, Harry recognised the thing to be a hand drawn map, peppered with Snape's harsh, scratchy writing.

It didn't take them long at all to get set on the proper course again. But though they had set out from Snape's quarters fairly swiftly, they now took the journey at a stroll, ostensibly to prevent becoming lost again. The pace suited Harry just fine. While not 'fond' of them, Harry realised he'd become quite accustomed to the dungeons in a way he'd never been comfortable at Grimmauld Place. He realised as well that, now that he allowed himself, Remus' nearness once again afforded reassurance, a familiarity Harry'd sorely missed. It was comfortable drifting through those empty corridors at Remus' elbow, and Harry thought it might not be such a tragedy should they become lost again. Secretly, Harry almost hoped for it. 

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the two encountered the first of the windows announcing that they had, in fact, officially left the dungeons. The bright mid-morning light that streamed through them instilled something in Harry akin to disappointment, despite its cheery promise of a temperate day. As though prompted by it, Remus finally dared to speak. 

"Understand, Harry," he began hesitantly. "We don't want to rush you." Harry swallowed a grumble. Why did Remus have to go and spoil such a nice moment? "However, Dumbledore and I think it best if you began your studies again straight away." Harry didn't respond so Remus offered a stumbling explanation. "Not the more strenuous subjects, mind you. Transfiguration and Occlumency can wait a bit. Well, actually you really should consider continuing Occlumency as soon as possible. But the others lessons, such as Hagrid's and my own. Especially my own…" Remus paused, apparently trying to will away his slight blush. "…should be resumed immediately."

"Yeah. Alright, " Harry mumbled finally, eyes fixed irritably on the path before him. He heard Remus sigh, and he thought the man might have lifted his hand as if he meant to lay it on Harry's shoulder. Harry practically held his breath in anticipation, but the hand never descended.

"It's only that, the threat hasn't passed, Harry," Remus said now. "If anything it's grown." Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. It wasn't as if he needed telling. "We want to be prepared for whatever we might encounter."

 _Whatever_ I _might encounter_ , Harry silently corrected. That's what it boiled down to. And yet again, Harry found himself wondering why the hell he should bother. Now more than ever, after all he'd been through, he felt like saying bugger it all and accept Voldemort's offer and let the rest of the world fend for itself. There was no guarantee he would succeed against Voldemort. Not much likelihood, even. If he couldn't save the whole world, he could at least save so many as the Weasleys and Grangers. It was all he cared about saving. But of course, he knew that wasn't entirely true, no matter how badly he wanted it to be. Harry felt himself becoming angry again. But instead putting his fist to something, Harry simply gave a sigh, one too weary for one of his limited years.

Now he did feel Remus' hand descend, timidly. Without thinking, Harry brought his own to meet it and heard Remus' slow intake of breath as he worked his fingers beneath the older man's. They stopped walking. Slowly, Harry turned his gaze to meet Remus', and his eyes were gently imploring, though even he didn't know for what. Remus swallowed and looked as though he didn't dare himself to speak, so Harry opened his own mouth to do so when the moment was abruptly shattered by a student turning quickly out of a nearby doorway and almost running them over. They had already reached the Great Hall.

Remus gently but quickly untangled his fingers from Harry's, subtly flustered, and stepped aside to let the boy pass. Harry threw a bitter look after him as he retreated down the corridor. He hadn't been ready for that contact to end, for their walk to be over. Harry deliberately ignored the massive open doors behind him. He didn't want to walk through them. Something shrank somewhere behind Harry's navel in response to the way Remus looked as if he wanted to disappear as he watched the boy slip from sight around a corner.

"Dumbledore thinks it best if I kept a low profile while I'm here," Remus explained, "considering the circumstances surrounding my resignation before. You understand."

Harry swallowed and slowly nodded, trying to catch Remus' eye again and force him to hold his gaze. But it didn't work.

"I'll be in my old quarters, should you need me for anything," Remus offered hurriedly, already backing away. Then he stopped and looked as though he wanted to say more, to do more, though finally only added, "Good luck today, Harry," and turned to go. Harry watched him until he was out of sight before taking a deep breath and turning his attention toward the doors of the Great Hall, steeling his will to pass through them.


	19. Of Ladies Most Deject and Wretched

Harry could feel the massive doors of the Great Hall looming behind him, but not as keenly as he felt Remus' absence. It was tangible, like ghost left in his guardian's wake to haunt him. Harry's fingers still tingled with the memory of a touch he hadn't wanted to end. He mourned it with a sigh and turned to pass the threshold back into the living world.

The Hall was not full but was still far too populated for Harry's liking. Students were scattered in sparse handfuls throughout, studying or else chatting idly as they nursed the remains of long cold breakfasts. Melancholy had settled on the gathering like a fog, and what little laughter could be heard was muted and subdued.

Harry supposed Snape was not the only professor doling out homework as he spied several open books and bobbing quills. In fact, one student at the end of Gryffindor's table appeared to be surrounded by a veritable fortress of texts. Harry groaned inwardly thinking of how much homework he would be making up on top of his special studies. Though, he supposed he might have an opportunity to play catch up, as he also noticed no one seemed to be overly concerned with the time. It must be the weekend again. It took him a moment to absorb the fact that he'd lost an entire week. He had no idea how he would explain his absence.

But more than he dreaded questions about his sudden reappearance, Harry dreaded what other awkward exchanges were sure to come with them. There were always those fawning few who seemed to think that reading about him in the tabloids made Harry their friend. Not many things irked him more about being The-Boy-Who-Lived than the familiar attitude of total strangers. Would they congratulate him like the portraits in Dumbledore's office had? Would they assume he'd driven the Dementors off single-handedly? Would they thank him for saving their lives? Harry didn't want the fickle gratitude of these children. He felt so far removed from them, so much older than his sixteen years, that it almost seemed comical to still be attending school at all. Harry watched them stressing over homework, passing notes, chatting Quidditch. They seemed so naive and immature. Harry both envied and despised their innocence, and he cursed to himself that he always had to leap to their rescue; that it was expected of him now, even of himself. He knew they would never understand how reluctant his sense of duty was or how it was making him hate them a little more each day for their vulnerability, their defenselessness.

Harry had only just come to recognise this hate. He feared it but could not banish it. Voldemort's words crept into his consciousness like poison through his veins. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was how it began for Tom Riddle, as well: this subtle resentment. Harry wondered what his classmates would expect him to say to their 'thank you's, could imagine himself struggling not to tell them exactly what to do with their gratitude. He doubted they would understand his silence. They would give him pitying looks and offer condolences for his unfortunate best friend. And he wouldn't be allowed to Crucio them.

Harry suddenly felt breakfast was a bad idea. No one had noticed him yet, so he turned back toward the doors. If he had to rejoin the student populace, he reasoned, it would be better to ease into it with people he knew. He'd just go to the dorms and...

Harry froze mid-step. Just what would he do in the dorms? Stare at Ron's empty bed? At the absence of his jumper draped sloppily on the back of his chair? At the complete lack of candy wrappers littering the floor? But if not to the dorms, then where could he go? There was no place at Hogwarts that did not remind Harry of Ron.

He tried to leave the Hall anyway, had the impulse to run screaming for the Forbidden Forest. Maybe he'd find Buckbeak. Maybe he'd just fly away and leave all this behind. But Harry's legs would not oblige. While his mind soared free in daydream, Harry's feet seemed to plant roots; until something struck him roughly from behind and caused him to stumble forward. Reawakened, Harry's limbs turned him to face his assailant.

"Sorry, mate," apologised a boy about Harry's age. He addressed Harry from the floor where he stooped to retrieve his fallen books. The insignia on his robes revealed him to be in Ravenclaw. Harry had never met him. "Wasn't looking where I was..." The sentence faded on the boy's lips, along with most of the blood from his face. As he straightened to face Harry, recognition washed the embarrassment from his expression.

 _And so it begins_ , Harry thought wryly. But the boy simply stammered 'sorry' again and tripped over himself in his flight for the door, almost spilling his books a second time. Baffled, Harry watched him disappear around the corner. He had an urge to follow but realised he was no longer unnoticed. The group of students closest to him at the Hufflepuff table was staring at him as if he'd just risen from the dead. He returned their stares impassively.

Harry noticed one of the younger girls looked as though she had been crying, and after a moment more, he recognised her as the first year who had almost been kissed on the train before Harry's Patronus had run down the Dementor who held her. Despite his simmering resentment for the rest of the student body, Harry gave her a sympathetic nod. She blushed and turned away, but the others with her were not so shy. They fixed Harry with looks very uncharacteristic of their house, and one of the boys moved over to place an arm protectively around the girl's shoulders. Harry might have been offended--and made sure the boy knew it--had he not been so taken aback by their hostility. Growing more and more confused, Harry decided it was time to move on.

With the exception of one last glance back at the unfriendly Hufflepuffs, Harry was careful not to catch anyone else's eye. He concentrated only on finding a seat. He wasn't hungry anymore, but he'd be damned if he'd go through all this discomfort without doing what he'd come here to do. Students were spaced just so down the length of Gryffindor table that it was impossible to find a place far enough away from anyone to discourage conversation, and he glanced covetously at the far end where the book-barricaded student was occupying the seat he'd most like to claim. Harry cursed them under his breath before he spotted a shock of bushy brown hair peeking over the stop of the stacked tomes. "Hermione?" he asked, not really meaning to do so aloud. At the sound of her name, Hermione leaned back to peer around her enclosure. Her eyes were haunted and wary, but when they fell on Harry, a timid smile crept halfway across her face.

"Harry," she said with a relieved sigh. "You're back."

He wasn't entirely inclined to agree with her. He felt insubstantial, incomplete, as though a part of him never rose from Snape's bed that morning. A part of him, too, would forever remain on the Hogwarts Express like a severed limb he'd been forced to abandon. Harry very much doubted he'd ever feel whole again. Looking at Hermione now, though, Harry supposed she hadn't fared much better than he had. There were dark circles under her eyes, accentuating her haunted expression, and her hair was bushier than usual as though it had not been properly combed. Harry recalled her detachment after the Dementor attack. Apparently, she hadn't yet regained her grasp on the here and now. He imagined her struggling each morning since to complete the most routine of tasks, without anyone to look after her as Harry had wrestled with his own demons deep in the dungeons. He took a seat beside her and forced a smile to mask his concern. A sense of shame stole over him that he had left her shepherd-less for so long.

But Harry still felt so ragged himself that a part of him (the poisoned part he was finding it harder and harder to suppress) didn't really want to be bothered by Hermione's pain. Harry had his own problems to be getting on with. How could he be expected to take on anyone else's? He wanted solitude in order to wrap his mind around how he really felt: about what had happened to Ron; about his relationship with Dumbledore, or Remus, or Snape. Nurtured by his newfound doubts, exaggerated by the bittersharp pain of his recent loss, it turned his concern into a confusing sort of anger.

Since when had Hermione ever been _fragile?_ And why, in Merlin's name, did she have to show it now? Now, when Harry was so very tired. His reaction to her was so wearyingly predictable and involuntary. He simply didn't have the strength to support them both, but he still felt it his responsibility; and this sense of obligation made him resent the subtle desperation he saw in her eyes as she looked at him, betraying her need.

She didn't deserve these thoughts. It made him ashamed that he'd conceived them. He hated his own reluctant but relentless need to be her bastion, hated himself for being so unfair to her. And in some small way, it made him hate her because of it.

Harry couldn't look at Hermione anymore. He didn't trust himself to speak. His ambivalence was threatening his still tenuous hold on his composure. The day hadn't even really started and already he felt spent. Why had he ever stopped taking the potion? He longed to be in Snape's bed again. Stiff and plain though it was, at least it had offered some semblance of refuge. There, he wouldn't have to pretend to be alright. He wouldn't have to see Hermione's expectant expression and feel guilty for not even being able to manage a simple 'Hello'. Why anyone thought Harry was ready to resume living was beyond him. One didn't have to be a master Legilimens to tell Harry was still very far from okay.

Just as Harry made up his mind to leave, the memory of Hermione writhing in agony on a cold stone floor as Harry watched helplessly just beyond reach stealthily inserted itself amongst his warring emotions. It came to him so suddenly and completely, it smothered everything else on his mind. But even as it anchored him, it simultaneously shook him to his core. It didn't matter that the remembrance was a of a falsehood, that the vision had been contrived. The echo of Hermione's screams flushed Harry's petty thoughts from his mind, and his selfish annoyance dissolved instantly into a desperate impulse to snatch Hermione up and cling to her as though his demons had materialised suddenly to steal her away from him. He wanted to apologise in gesture for the unkind thoughts he hadn't voiced, but he knew it would startle her.

He managed to restrain himself to simply taking up the hand she had left lying on the bench between them. Hermione seemed a bit surprised by her mute friend's unexpected and tenacious grasp but turned her hand in his to return it, blushing ever so slightly.

Harry still couldn't speak, though. Even if he could manage to force words past the stone in his chest, how could he ever explain that she was marked for torture and death? Of course, in the safety of Hogwarts, he knew the confession would be well received. She wouldn't even frown, only tell him he'd made the right decision and that she'd never fall into Voldemort's hands anyway, so there was no cause to worry. But what if she was wrong? If the unthinkable were to happen, as she drew her last breath beneath Voldemort's wand, would she really be able to forgive him if she knew he'd been given the opportunity to save her and had refused? How would he ever forgive himself?

Harry noticed that she was staring at him with patient inquiry but was saved from having to explain his odd behaviour by the plate that materialised in front of him. With some effort, he disentangled his fingers from hers. Though, after one glance at the generous portion of scrambled eggs on his plate, he simply pushed it away.

"How are you, then?" he finally managed, still struggling to breathe.

Hermione didn't answer right away. Wariness crept back into her expression and she scanned the Hall before leaning in to whisper to him. Though, her response faltered when she noticed he was frowning at her bandaged forehead. "Oh, this," she said raising a hand to the tape and gauze as though she had forgotten she still wore them. "Alright, I suppose. Just a scratch, really. There was a shortage of skin seal ointment and so many others who needed it more than I did. I decided to just let it heal on its own. Really, who cares about a little scar?" she shrugged and then gave a small gasp as she remembered who she was talking to. Her eyes flickered to Harry's forehead and she gave him a deeply apologetic look.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. In fact, he hadn't even thought of his own scar until she had looked pointedly at it.

Hermione's eyes moved anxiously around the Hall again, and not just to avoid Harry's. He found himself wondering what she had been about to tell him before the conversation strayed to scars and turned to survey the room himself.

Harry wasn't pleased by what he saw. The heavy silence that had fallen on the Hufflepuff table when he arrived had now infected the rest of the student body. All around people were whispering to one another. Harry wondered why they went to the trouble of lowering their voices when no one attempted to hide the fact that Harry was the topic of conversation. They didn't even have the decency to look ashamed, or to bother to look away when Harry met their blatant stares. He gave the room an annoyed, almost challenging scowl and was about to make a show of ignoring them to return his attention to Hermione when something captured his attention.

There was only one person in the Great Hall not staring at Harry. And to Harry's great surprise, that person was Draco Malfoy. Those great, bulking, barely-sentient shadows of his, Crabbe and Goyle, were nowhere to be seen. It made Malfoy appear somehow one-third his usual size. Or perhaps he seemed so diminished because he was presently slouching in his seat. _Slouching_. Harry had never known Malfoy to slouch. He had never seen him adopt anything less than the haughty posture of assumed superiority. But Draco's pathetic appearance only made Harry more suspicious.

"What's that about, do you think?" he remarked to Hermione. She followed his line of sight and smirked, which was something Harry had never known her to do, either.

"Mummy won't let him play with the other bigots," she sneered. The comment and Hermione's expression were so unlike his friend that it took him a moment to process what she'd said. The sudden change in her shocked Harry. It was one of those moments so unpleasantly unexpected that Harry couldn't quite make out how he felt about it before Hermione continued. "Karkaroff's been replaced," she explained, her voice thick with derision, "apparently, by someone Death Eater-approved. Half of Slytherin's been recruited to Durmstrang. And you can guess they won't just be studying History of Magic. Cobblesnot had better teach us something useful," she muttered.

"Cobble _snot_?" Harry asked. Surely he had heard wrong. Hermione didn't insult teachers. It was as though whatever flaws they might have were automatically forgiven by virtue of their title. She didn't even call _Snape_ names.

Hermione looked sheepish, but only a little. "That's what everyone calls her," she said defensively. "She _is_ a bit off, isn't she?"

Harry couldn't argue with that. Hermione nodded to a shadowy corner, and Harry noticed that the staff table was empty. Cobbleshot was apparently the Professor on duty but had stationed herself in the darkest part of the room, watching her charges in that odd, almost maddeningly indifferent way of hers. Remembering the train ride to Hogwarts with the strange woman, Harry guessed he understood Hermione's venom; though, he didn't think Hermione had been paying any attention to the woman at the time. Harry _had_ been paying attention, and the memory unnerved him, though it didn't elicit quite as strong a reaction as the one their new professor was drawing from Hermione just then. Their gazes met, Hermione's radiating dislike and Cobbleshot's apathy. 

"So why isn't Draco at Durmstrang?" he asked, though the change of subject did not soften Hermione's disturbing new mood.

"Narcissa refused," she shrugged. At least she had broken off her staring match with Cobbleshot to answer. "The Malfoys divorced after Lucius went to Azkaban. It's all over school. Draco doesn't have many friends at the moment." The way she spat the word 'friends' made Harry wonder if there was more she wasn't telling him. But just at that moment, Harry was distracted even from Hermione by the thought of Draco, friendless and alone; easy pickings. Harry didn't fight the poison now as it whispered through his veins to the sweet tune of payback. Just wait until he told Ron...

Of course.  _Ron_. It was exactly the sort of thing they two would conspire about. The reality and totality of Ron's absence poured over Harry like a bucket of ice water, washing him numb. He would almost have thought a Dementor had inexplicably found its way into the Great Hall, except that the scene that played in his head now was not a memory. Still, it was no less painful. No matter how desperately he willed the vision away, Harry couldn't help but imagine what his best friend would have said about the present situation.

 _Not so tough now, is he?_ (Harry had the impulse to cover his ears with his hands, but he knew it wouldn't block out the sound of Ron's voice in his head.)  _All by his ickle self. I'd like to see him pick a fight now. We could really stick it to him. What d'ya say, Harry? After lunch? Catch him in the Halls and have a bit of sport?_

 _Ron! Don't you dare!_  (It was Hermione...as she was before, undamaged and straight-laced.)

_He's a git! And he's got it coming. Don't tell me you've gone all soft on him. Going to start making buttons with S.P.M.W. on them? Society for the Preservation of Malfoy's Welfare?_

_It's 'Promotion' of Elvish Welfare. And no, I'm not. But you certainly don't need to go getting into trouble just because you can. There's enough going on without detention._

_Come on, 'Mione. Just a little hex? You know he'd do the same to us._

_Exactly. You'd just be stooping to his level._

_...Eh. He isn't worth it. Still, if he crosses us..._

"Harry? Are you alright? You look pale," Hermione said anxiously, more like the Hermione he knew. She laid a hand on his arm, breaking the strange trance.

As Harry's disturbing fantasy faded to a painful echo, he realised he'd been staring at the empty seat beside of him. Harry had to take a moment to come to terms with the realisation that it would always remain empty. For perhaps the first time, he began to comprehend what losing Ron really meant. There would be no more mischievous conspiracies, no playful argument, no Hermione trying to keep the boys in line. Ron was gone, and the enormity of the void he left threatened to crush Harry.

It was a long moment before Harry managed to wrestle his pain into something manageable to be dealt with later, elsewhere. Harry could tell his odd behaviour was making Hermione uncomfortable, but she didn't press him for an explanation, for which Harry was very grateful. When he was finally able to turn back to her, he noticed she had taken up a pair of scissors and was continuing with the project she'd been working on when Harry had arrived. It had nothing to do with homework, contrary to what Harry had suspected based on her fortress of schoolbooks. Harry now recognized she was simply trying to shield herself from unwanted attention. On the table were several brightly coloured fliers with the smiling face of a house-elf that bore a striking resemblance to Dobby, and Harry had a sense of déjà vu.

"What's all this, then?" he asked, trying to infuse his voice with sincere interest.

"This? Oh, nothing really," she replied, but Harry could hear the suppressed enthusiasm in her voice. "Dumbledore has asked me to reinstate Spew."

At the mention of Dumbledore, Harry bristled involuntarily. He shrugged it off. He was too relieved by Hermione's lightened mood to entertain yet another inner conflict. " _Spew?_ I thought it was S.P.E.W.?" he teased gently. Hermione's cheeks coloured.

"Yes. Well. It _is_ ," she admitted, flustered. "But just between the two of us, S.P.E.W. is such a mouthful, really. And when you say it often, well, _Spew_ is just more convenient. Though to be honest, I've been thinking of changing the name. I'm just not sure to what. It's been so long since I've worked on it. You see, it was Dumbledore's idea...the campaign, obviously, not the name." Again, Harry reacted to Dumbledore's name, becoming more and more annoyed with himself. He willed Voldemort out of his head though was painfully conscious of the fact that his scar was dormant. "He's started his own campaign, you know, with the Ministry. He says he's interested in passing some pro-elf legislation. Freedom for house elves, Harry! Could you imagine it?"

Actually, Harry could. And he could imagine, as well, Dumbledore's sudden interest in Elvish liberation. With Voldemort so actively recruiting non-humans, the Order would reap the two-fold benefit of adding them to their ranks and also of removing them as tools in the hands of the Death Eaters. What was it Hermione once told him? That one of the reasons for the Elves' enslavement was because Wizards feared their considerable power? But Hermione seemed so enamoured by the apparent altruism of Dumbledore's actions that Harry couldn't bring himself to point out their military aspect.

"Of course," she went on, "Freedom is too ambitious right now. Dumbledore just wants to secure them certain rights." ( _And butter them up_ , Harry thought.) "You see, he feels that if we gain enough support with the students, it's bound to have an influence on their parents." The more she spoke, the more quickly the words fell from her tongue, and she was attacking the paper with a sort of nervous energy that made Harry wonder if he should take the scissors away from her. "And so, my point being, I want it all to be taken _seriously_. So S.P.E.W. simply won't do at all. As, let's face it, most of the students here have just the sort of juvenile mentality that will see S.P.E.W. and think _spew_ , just like Ron-"

She stopped abruptly. She didn't just stop just talking, she froze, and as Harry watched, the paper in her hand began to tremble ever so slightly. Tears filled her eyes, glistening on her lashes as if she willed them not to fall, as if in allowing them to spill she would pass the point of no return and lose her composure entirely. Harry wanted to reach out to her but was afraid, in the same way one hesitates to lift something delicate for fear of breaking it. It was then that Harry recognised Hermione's campaign for what it was: a distraction. Dumbledore had given her something to cling to in Harry's absence. And so, Harry's feelings of animosity toward the Headmaster softened somewhat. Anyone could see that the effort was hopeless. But then, so was Hermione.

Harry also recognised that it was a temporary solution, and now was Harry's cue to rise above his own pain and help Hermione through hers. It was, undoubtedly, why Harry taking breakfast in the Great Hall had been encouraged. "Hermione, I-," he began, but was cut short by the sensation of something soft striking his back and tumbling to the floor with a soft _splut_. Harry and Hermione both looked down to see the scattered remains of the scrambled eggs that had just been thrown at him. Hermione gasped. Harry sighed.

 _You have got to be freaking kidding me,_ he thought _._ Were they in primary school? Seriously. Who throws eggs? Harry turned to face his attacker and caught the second helping in the nose. The joke had officially been taken too far. Harry was on his feet before it hit the floor, wand in hand.

"Why can't you just leave us alone!" He'd meant to shout it angrily, to roar, but it came out more as a weary keen. He was so _tired._ Harry turned to where Malfoy had been sitting, certain he was going to catch him red-handed. But Malfoy was gone.

Harry wasn't in the mood for games. His mind was still on Hermione. Whoever the offender was, they weren't just messing with him, they were depriving her of the kindness Harry was trying to show her, and he needed to make up for lost time. This, more than anything else, really pissed Harry off. He'd find the offender if he had to confront each and every person in the room, and he'd make them answer for the crime. But even as Harry began planning his systematic search, he realised it was quite unnecessary. The culprit seemed to be the Hufflepuff boy from earlier, standing in the aisle nearby, another lump of eggs held ready in his hand. No one else in the Great Hall stirred. It was as if the entire room held its breath. Harry knew a challenge when he saw one.

"What is your malfunction?" Harry demanded. "Do I even know you?"

"Prolly not," the boy replied. "But everyone sure knows you, don't they? What I don't know is where you were or why you came back. But why don't you just do us all a favor and bugger back off? Can't you see _no one_ wants you here?" The next mushy projectile struck Harry in the chest. Harry had the impulse to punch the boy in his fat mouth, but he was considerably larger than Harry. Instead, he slowly lifted his wand.

"Harry," Hermione said warily, rising to stand at his side.

"Get behind me, Hermione," he said, preparing to hex the boy into next Tuesday. He wasn't about to become an easy target for any dimwit with a bone to pick. He'd jinx this kid so badly no one would even think about messing with him again. You just don't throw food at someone who's recently lost his best friend. Especially when that someone has faced Voldemort and his assorted minions and lived to tell the tale. But before Harry could decide how to 'improve' the boy's face, a cry came from the Hufflepuff table.

"Patrick, don't!" Within moments the shy first-year girl from before was at the boy's side, gently tugging at his elbow. "Please," she added pleadingly, blushing crimson and apologising to Harry with her eyes.

"Go and sit down, Ellie," the boy replied distractedly without looking at her. Harry could tell by the way he spoke to her that Patrick must be Ellie's older brother. Poor kid. She'd probably had the worst first day of school ever, and now she was about to see her brother seriously injured by the guy who had saved her life. Well, better that she learned early that life is funny like that. Harry had been there, too. People he'd trusted all year had turned around and tried to kill him. The monster dog he'd been afraid of for months turned out to be his Godfather. His best friend's family pet was revealed to be the man who caused his parent's death. Fate had a sick sense of humour.

Though he hadn't yet drawn his wand, Harry could see Patrick's hand twitch at his side. "I'm sorry, Ellie. But you're going to want to step away from your brother," Harry suggested. Ellie's eyes widened, but instead of stepping away, she squeezed closer to Patrick.

"Don't you dare talk to her!" the boy threatened. "Ellie, I told you to sit down!"

Looking a little hurt by his tone, she finally fled back to the group of students she'd been sitting with earlier. They closed in around her as if they thought Harry might come after her after he was done with Patrick. Again, the gesture angered Harry. What did these people think he was? A madman with a wand? A loose cannon? A ticking bomb? Well, they may have been right on all counts, but none of that meant he was going to go picking on defenceless little girls.

"Everyone knows it. It's about time someone said it," Patrick said now, his full attention returned to Harry. "All these bad things that happen, it's because of _you_." There was murmured assent throughout the Hall.

So this was what they really thought, was it? _Stupid children._ Didn't they know how many times Harry had saved their arses? If not for him, the basilisk might still be roaming free. Voldemort would have claimed the Philosopher's Stone years ago. At half a dozen times in a half a dozen ways, if Harry hadn't been around to slow him at every turn, Voldemort might already have regained his former power and influence. He might have already delivered real pain and punishment on the Wizarding World. And then where would these ungrateful brats be? Not sitting in this nice, safe Hall muttering under their breath about a bad luck charm by the name of Harry Potter, that's for certain. The fact that most people weren't allowed to know all those helpful details didn't placate Harry in the least. It didn't change the fact that it was true. In an indirect way, Harry had risked his life for each and every person in this room several times over. And _this_ was the thanks he got? It turned his stomach. Worse, it pissed him off.

Hermione laid a warning hand on Harry's arm, looking frightened. It occurred to him that once upon a time she would have jumped to his defence, told the other boy what a great idiot he was being. But something was different now. It was as if something inside her had been irreparably broken. They were both damaged.

"You-Know-Who is after Harry Potter. As long as _you're_ around, we're all in danger! And if you won't go willingly," the boy said, reaching for his wand, "then I guess someone had better make you."

 _Finally,_ Harry thought. He wasn't going anywhere. Though only half an hour ago Harry had daydreamed of escaping via Hippogriff, now his spite made Hogwarts the most appealing place on the planet. It was quite beside the fact that he had nowhere else to go. He didn't owe anyone here any favours.

Harry's scar began to tingle. But instead of frightening him into backing down as it should have, Harry welcomed its destructive promise. Let it tingle. Harry would show this Patrick exactly what he was capable of. And if anyone besides had a problem with it, Harry would take them on, too. Hell, he'd take out the whole damned Hall! In fact, Harry smiled in anticipation.

"You laughing at me, boy?" Patrick asked, sounding tough.

_Boy?_

Harry actually did laugh. A manic titter erupted from his mouth. Rather than offence, it seemed to inspire unease in the other boy. Harry imagined that, by that afternoon, everyone in school would have heard that Harry Potter was officially off his head. He really didn't care. He awaited the boy's next move.

Before it could be made, however, Harry's view was suddenly obscured by an expanse of familiar black fabric. "What's all this, then?" Snape asked lazily as if he didn't really care to know. He was standing in front of Harry with his back to him, and Hermione took the opportunity to gently force Harry to lower his wand. Having done so, the prickling in Harry's scar subsided. Though he no longer craved the level of violence he was so recently envisioning, Harry still felt robbed. But at least Snape was here now. Strange how that fact was comforting. For once, though, the Potions Master would be chastising someone else.

Snape turned to look down his nose at Harry. With a small measure of satisfaction, Harry noted he didn't have to look far. Thanks to a recent growth spurt, Harry was almost eye level with the Potions Master. "Causing trouble yet again, Potter?" Snape asked with a withering sigh.

" _Me?_ " Harry sputtered. He was so incredulous that, for a moment, he had trouble forming words. "But it was _him_ who was throwing the eggs!"

"I would watch my tone if I were you, Mr. Potter," Snape said dangerously. "Unless you'd like to find yourself in even more trouble than you are presently. As I'm sure you are well aware, duelling is strictly prohibited in the Great Hall. Now, kindly put away your wand and follow me."

Harry, however, made no move to do so. The unfairness of it made Harry's eyes sting with the threat of angry tears.

"What? Would you like to stay and finish your breakfast? I'd have thought you'd have had your fill of eggs," Snape said with a sneer, earning a few quiet snickers from the surrounding students. Harry trembled with humiliation and suppressed anger, though thankfully, his scar didn't respond to Snape's taunt. Without waiting for further response, Snape turned and left the Great Hall. After an awkward moment and without even a parting glance to Hermione, Harry forced himself to follow, staring fixedly at the floor in front of him as he did so. He was unwilling to see the smug satisfaction on Patrick's face and did not entirely trust himself not to throw a punch or two as he passed by.

Snape swept soundlessly through the hallways with Harry in tow. The young man paid no attention to where they might be heading. He was still angry and thought it completely unfair that he was the only one being punished, but now that his scar had quieted, Harry no longer wanted to lay waste to the student body. Which--looking back--Harry realised was absolutely insane. His anger ebbed to be suitably replaced by fear.

If Snape hadn't shown up, Harry would have seriously hurt that misguided boy, whose only real crime appeared to be an overdeveloped sense of protectiveness. Harry also might have hurt others in the crossfire, Ellie and Hermione included. This thought horrified him, and he replayed the events in his mind, trying to pinpoint when things had turned so horribly wrong. As vehemently as Harry had rejected Voldemort's predictions, they seemed to be coming true far sooner than Harry could ever have imagined. How long had he even been awake now? A few measly hours? 

Maybe Patrick was right. Harry didn't belong there. But where would he go? At this rate, he was going to end up in St. Mungo's. That thought almost made Harry trip over his own feet and he shuddered. He imagined himself rooming with Lockhart and might have laughed except that it suddenly seemed a very real possibility. Harry didn't want to be put away, but they'd almost have to. Taking his wand wouldn't be enough. The power that had demolished Dumbledore's office hadn't streamed through his wand. It had poured from his scar. Just remembering the tinkle of glass, the rip of canvas, and blood sweat made his scar itch. It did not stir like it had in the Hall, it was just a phantom sensation brought on by the memory. Harry rubbed at it absently as he walked, and real panic began to rise in him.

He couldn't be packed off! He had a prophecy to fulfil. Not that he relished the idea, but it was _his_ prophecy. If he didn't stop Voldemort, who would?

Harry was so lost in these thoughts that he almost collided with Snape when the man stopped abruptly and turned to him. Harry realised he was still rubbing his head and hastily lowered his hand. He didn't want anyone, least of all Snape, to know how close he'd come to losing control.

"What exactly did you think you were doing?" Snape demanded.

Harry noticed his voice was more stern and exasperated than truly angry. It caught him off guard. He toed the ground sullenly for a moment before muttering, rather lamely, "He started it."

Snape quite looked as though Harry's answer had made him physically ill. "Be that as it may," he replied wearily, "there was little need for you to finish it. _Must_ you rise to every goad? Is it really so difficult to just do nothing?" For the dozenth time that day, Harry's conversation with Voldemort drifted to the forefront of his thoughts. "Grow _up_ , Harry," Snape said, pulling him abruptly back to the present.

 _Wait_. Did Snape really just call him by his first name?

"I think you are well aware that your... _abilities_ are more advanced than many of your classmates. It is unseemly to pick a fight with those weaker than yourself."

Beneath Harry's irritation at the hypocrisy of Snape's comments, he wondered if there wasn't, in fact, something resembling a compliment in them. Or close enough to, considering where it came from. Harry had always rather thought Snape considered him inept in all things. "He was throwing food at me. What did you expect me to do? Get up and walk off?"

Snape suddenly raised his fist, and for a moment Harry thought the Professor was actually about to hit him. Instead, Snape rapped smartly on the door in beside them. Only then did Harry recognise that they were at McGonagall's office.

"Actually," Snape began in answer to his question, "that is exactly what I expect. And apparently that was what Professor Cobbleshot expected, as well, or else I would imagine she would have been busy separating the two of you rather than bothering to report the incident to me. Fortunately, I am somewhat more familiar with your behaviour than she is and was able to prevent what I am sure would have been a spectacular display of testosterone and stupidity. I shall advise our new Professor not to give you so much credit in future, especially should it relate to matters of common sense."

Somehow, Harry was not insulted. It could have been that he was inured to Snape's caustic remarks. More likely, Harry was too busy thinking how odd it had been that the confrontation had been allowed to escalate so far without a teacher's intervention. Harry wondered why, if Cobbleshot were going to report something to someone, she would have picked Snape. He was actually--and rather unwisely--about to pose this question to the man when the door to McGonagall's office opened.

"Minerva," the Potions Master greeted her, though he was still looking at Harry as if somehow disappointed that he hadn't responded to his barb. "It seems that Mr. Potter has finally deigned to grace us with his presence. I'll leave him in your hands." Then to Harry's surprise, Snape turned to go.

"What? That's it, then?" Harry asked, slightly startled to realise that he had done so aloud.

"Were you looking forward to detention?" Snape inquired over his shoulder.

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, Sir," Harry added quickly, too stymied to be impudent.

"Very well, then," Snape said, laying the matter to rest and continuing on his way.

" _Detention?_ " McGonagall asked, having watched the exchange with mild perplexity. Harry looked sheepish but did not volunteer to explain, and McGonagall seemed to think it better not to inquire further. "Well, you'd best come in, Potter," she said, stepping aside to allow Harry to do so. "I have your class schedule. And your  _other_ schedule. Besides," she added more gently, "we have a few things to discuss."

Harry hesitated. Things that made McGonagall speak gently were never good. Though, at least he didn't have detention to worry about. Watching Snape's still-retreating back, Harry puzzled over the emotion he was feeling. He guessed it might have been gratitude but was unsure, as he was so unaccustomed to feeling it in combination with Severus Snape.


	20. Purpose is But the Slave to Memory

That night the hallways were unusually empty, even considering it was past curfew. They were almost more familiar to Harry by moonlight, thanks to years of midnight escapades, but he'd never known then to be so still. He hadn't encountered a soul since leaving Gryffindor Tower, living or otherwise. It seemed the only thing haunting Hogwarts that night was Harry. But while the last several days _had_ felt like a kind of purgatory, Harry guessed the complete absence of clandestine snogging sessions had more to do with the strict new safety protocols than with him possibly being trapped in some hellish limbo.

Or perhaps it was simply the rain. The clouds had been threatening since lunchtime to work themselves into a really proper storm but had, as of yet, failed to make up their mind. Harry could sympathise. They mimicked the storm that had been trying to rise in him all day. Trying and failing so often he began to wonder whether his capacity to feel anything except anger might somehow have been damaged. Even his anger seemed to have reached its limits, remaining low burning but persistent, so that he hardly noticed it anymore.

It wasn't that he hadn't expected his first day back to be challenging, it was that the challenges he'd faced were so wholly unexpected. Far from fawning, the halls were filled with tension and potential hostility. (The latter mostly on Harry's part.) It was good that Hermione had required both his attention and his temper to be even. He could feel himself spoiling for a fight, and her presence alone probably prevented him from doing any number of inadvisable things.

But Hermione was not meant to be Harry's saviour. He was meant to be hers. It had been an exhausting exercise. Though she had improved throughout the day, she was still far from herself. She was, at times, sullen and distracted, needing frequent reminding of what she was saying or doing. At others, she was compulsively chatty and cheerful, which Harry found even more painful. Her only constant seemed to be her newly acquired cynicism, which disquieted him the most. Harry just didn't know what to do about her.

 _No_ , he corrected himself. _For_ her.

He might have accepted the responsibility grudgingly, but he did truly care about Hermione. Whenever he felt himself losing patience, he only had to remind himself of that horrible vision, to tell himself he wasn't the only one in pain. Still, he had so little of himself to give, and as much as it shamed him to admit, he'd really just wanted to be well away from her. It was with no small amount of relief that he had finally been able to deposit her at her dormitory. He had been relieved, too, to find his own empty when he went to retrieve his invisibility cloak. He realized he hadn't seen Dean, Seamus, or Neville all day. He wondered wryly if they'd been relocated for their own safety. Or perhaps they were simply avoiding him, hoping he'd already be asleep when they came up themselves.

Harry found he didn't particularly care. After days spent in bed, he was restless and the Castle beckoned. He'd felt all day that, if he could just get a moment to himself, he could start to untangle the mess of thoughts and feelings in his head. But once under his cloak he'd ended up wandering aimlessly, his mind a blessed but inconvenient blank. He didn't particularly want to confront his demons, but he'd made a decision, and Dumbledore could not make use of a broken puppet.

The idea irritated him, and he cursed Voldemort for being in his head even when he wasn't. Choice or no choice, it didn't quiet the conflict within him. It was becoming more and more difficult to articulate just what he felt. Everything had become a sort of emotional soup; white noise, like the fattening drops now drumming steadily against the window panes outside. His ambivalence may have been slow to build but, like the storm outside, it seemed to have finally come to a head. Instead of trying to analyse each raindrop, Harry simply opened himself to the deluge and hoped not to be swept away.

Though, having thrown open the floodgates, Harry was a little disappointed to find it didn't fill him as expected. As hoped, because he'd begun to worry that he'd forgotten how to feel normal things like normal people. His fears seemed confirmed. He was a broken vessel. The pressures of the last week had weakened all his seams until, now, everything just drained through the cracks. The floodwaters buffeted but did not slow. Harry decided that he didn't feel numb as he'd originally thought. It was more that he was hollow; vastly and insatiably empty.

The first flash of lightning burst silently beyond the window, and its light fell through Harry. He hadn't expected to cast a shadow while wearing his cloak. Still, he stared at that place on the wall where his shadow would have been and felt insubstantial. He felt...not himself. Not anyone. And really, he wondered, just who _was_ he anymore anyway, since so much that had made him 'who he was' had been lost? The winds picked up outside, howling as they dragged themselves across the face of the castle and pulling a not insignificant gust down the drafty old corridor. Harry closed his eyes and imagined it was memories washing over him, instead. Over and through and out and away. They rushed too fast to be coherent, but he reached out anyway, trying to pluck his memories of Ron from the stream. He frowned to find they simply ran through his fingers. No matter how he clawed at them, he couldn't grasp them, couldn't grasp what he'd once felt. It was as if a large part of him--perhaps the largest--had simply washed away, leaving him with nothing but anger at its wake. Harry mentally washed his hands through the rest of his life and it was much the same.

And suddenly none of it seemed particularly important anymore. He wanted it to be. He'd been going through all the motions. But these watery reflections might as well have been a dream he struggled to remember. Or illustrations from a storybook he'd read long ago. It was one that had moved him, granted, with fairytale villains and impossible trials, but it was one in which he didn't feel he had played an actual part.

But no. It wasn't _all_ diluted. There was a memory that was more substantial, and the feelings connected to it more viscous; one that welled while the rest just ran.

If he was completely honest with himself, there was more than one. But the memory of Remus' hand beneath his was more unsettling somehow. Those waters were warmer, but uncomfortably so. He was in no fit state to face the implications of it, wasn't prepared to confront the truth of why something so innocent could make him blush all over. So he set it aside, with no immediate intentions of reexamining it later.

The memory of snooping through Snape's quarters, however, was chilling in the best of ways, like a dunk in a cold pool that wakes one up. Snape was safe, ironically, because he was dangerous. And that, at least, was familiar. Harry much preferred Snape to Remus at the moment. Not the man, naturally, but the memory Harry still cradled in his consciousness of that door handle jerking from his grasp. It was the thrill one feels on the cusp of forbidden discovery, of almost being caught, that had quickened Harry's heart and convinced him he was, indeed, still alive. It was the best proof he'd had of it so far because neither the feeling nor the memory had faded. Neither was it constant, like his anger, to which he was becoming inured. The incident flared fresh every time it came to mind, and so was very welcome but regrettably unrepeatable...as he couldn't imagine ever finding himself in the Potion Master's quarters again.

It was this conundrum that preoccupied Harry when the next flash of lightning revealed more than just his lack of shadow. As if summoned by accidental magic, Professor Snape himself appeared to be striding silently and purposefully in Harry's direction. He was almost invisible in the shadows except when betrayed by the intermittent illumination from the storm. It was a powerful tableau that sent shivers up Harry's spine.

It seemed Harry's feet had been carrying him toward the dungeons, his subconscious understanding what he thirsted for even though Harry had only just become aware. He was still conflicted, but his distraction of choice had conveniently come to Harry without his having to go looking for it. _Severus Snape_ was coming and bringing with him that same promise of mystery and danger of discovery Harry had tasted that morning. He may never have another opportunity to investigate the locked door again, but that was fine, because what Harry craved, Snape carried with him in spades.

Harry was both intrigued by and apprehensive of the effect Snape's arrival had on him. It was rather like breaking the surface after a long submersion, and the haze through which Harry had been wading abruptly fell away. His common sense urged him to slip away in the opposite direction, but Harry ignored it, instead pressing himself against the corridor wall to allow Snape to pass.

It was fortunate that Harry was invisible because Snape came so close Harry could have reached out and touched the robes that curled out behind the man like smoke in the darkness. It was as if Snape somehow smouldered. Harry actually might have done; reached out. The impulse was strong, but the first peal of thunder broke just then, close and crisp, simultaneously snapping Harry to his senses and invoking a heady rush of adrenaline. It left Harry breathless. Not just the shock of the thunder, but also the thought of what Snape might have done if Harry had dared. So much seemed to have changed between them lately, and Harry wondered just what Snape would have said about Harry being so far from Gryffindor Tower so late at night, fondling his cloak, of all things. Harry wondered what would happen if he whipped his own off right then...and why he was almost eager to find out.

It was completely mad. Harry, he realised, was completely mad. It would almost have been funny except that, while Harry mused, Snape was moving away, becoming just another echo of a slamming door that left Harry's fingers tingling. And Harry wasn't ready yet. He wasn't ready to relinquish his tenuous hold on...whatever this was. Because whatever it was, it was infinitely more tangible and accessible than the ghostly torrents that had carved out Harry's present emptiness. Whatever this was it did not erode but instead whetted Harry's sense of "self" and "here" and "now".

It wasn't exactly a conscious decision he made to push off the wall after Snape, or to dog his steps down one long, drafty corridor after another. And so it hadn't really occurred to Harry to wonder on Snape's destination until they found themselves at the guarded entrance to the Headmaster's office. It was obvious what Harry would do, but if he stopped to consider it, he knew he would baulk. So Harry quite deliberately didn't think as Snape spoke the password. He didn't consider as he closed the distance between them, the sounds of his hasty approach drowned out by the storm raging outside and the rough brush of stone against stone. Harry entertained no notion of consequences as the stair carried Snape slowly but steadily out of sight. Harry simply let impulse and momentum carry him through the narrowing gap beside the guardian statue and onto the rotating stair behind the professor.

Only then did Harry allow himself to reflect that he might have made a mistake, that no matter what understanding he and Snape had reached, being caught out of bed was nothing compared to being caught sneaking into Dumbledore's office. But it was too late now to change his mind. With a final resounding thump, the statue settled back into place, sealing Harry's non-decision as it sealed his only avenue of escape.

Though his landing had sobered him considerably, Harry still wasn't afraid. It could have been that, being trapped, fear would have simply been a waste of time. Or it could have been that whatever it was that was broken in him included the ability to feel fear in the first place. The fact remained that there was nowhere for him to go but up, with and toward Snape. Only a week had actually passed, but their last Occlumency lesson seemed a lifetime ago...

Before.

Harry realised he would now forever reckon events as having happened either Before or After Ron. Of all the things he'd been through, all the things he'd seen, that event alone merited the delineation.

But the puzzle of Snape spanned it. Harry had been wanting to discuss his Occlumency lesson Before, when the dementors came. Harry was found by Snape After. In Snape's quarters, at breakfast; the man was everywhere in Harry's thoughts. He still found Snape threatening and suspicious and off-putting, Harry simply didn't seem to mind anymore. The sum of all these things was that Harry was _curious_. Not so long ago, Harry was comfortable in the belief that he had the man pegged: he was a greasy, mean git in league with Harry's mortal enemy and his only discernible ambition in life was to make Harry's miserable.

But that was Before. How naive Harry felt now and how drawn to the riddle of Snape. He _was_ the locked door, Harry realised. That almost-discovery had been sweet, addictive. How much more tempting now was the man himself, just as elusive and heavily fortified? Harry crept further up the stairs, thinking on how he'd never been so close to Snape when the Potions Master hadn't been spitting insults at him like venom. He looked...different without his fangs bared. Not vulnerable. Harry didn't think he could be considered so under any circumstances. But he was definitely unguarded, and Harry felt almost privileged to be witness to what surely was such a rare occurrence. It made him feel bold. Snape had only to reach out beside him to discover Harry's voyeurism, but Harry refused to waste this opportunity to really _see_ the professor. He thought of everything Snape had said to him at Grimmauld Place, and that odd conversation he'd overheard him have with Remus through the hearth, and all of the niggling questions Harry'd almost forgotten resurfaced and demanded attention.

Who _was_ Severus Snape? What kind of man? How could he cast Harry from his tutelage in a time of great need over a pair of faded underpants but then offer Harry the seclusion of his own sanctuary in the face of another crisis? He had, in turns, been Harry's bane and his saviour. Just that morning he'd prevented Harry from doing something he definitely would have regretted. And somehow Harry just _knew_ it hadn't been about the greater good, it had been about Harry himself. It was a strange and immodest thought, but his intuition told him it was true.

Snape might not mollycoddle or sugarcoat, perhaps he didn't even care about Harry in the way the others did, but more and more it seemed like Snape simply understood Harry in a way no one else did. And Harry wanted to understand him, too. He wanted more of what he'd seen at Grimmauld Place. He wanted to know what weight Snape bore that stooped his posture like a waiting vulture, what thoughts stewed beneath that lank mop of black hair. Harry wanted to know what had happened to cause that firm set of resignation in his expression.

Unlike the stoicism he saw in Remus, Snape's brand of resignation carried ample amounts of bitterness, resentment, and regret. And while there were obvious candidates, Harry didn't want to speculate. He wanted to know, specifically, which ones composed his perpetual scowl.

Harry could scarcely imagine doing what Snape did so regularly, going into Voldemort's presence with the express purpose of deceiving him. Merlin's beard, it practically gave Harry grey hairs just thinking about it. Perhaps it spoke to how stern the stuff was from which Snape was made that Harry saw no grey at all in Snape's oily black locks. Impressive, too, was how few lines traced his sallow features. Far fewer than one would expect, at any rate. There were only those ones which accentuated his scowl and gave definition to that trademark smirk of his which, though it appeared to be resting, was still always faintly present; ready at a moment's notice to curl his thin lips towards those long nostrils, flared even now as if in disgust.

Or was it disgust?

No, it was definitely disgust and not a passive kind. As Harry watched, he realised Snape seemed to be _smelling_ something. Something unpleasant.

Wait. Could it-...was it _Harry?_

As if in answer, Snape lifted his hawkish nose in Harry's direction with a pronounced sniff. Harry, panicked to realise just how close he'd come, swiftly put several steps between them, stealing quick whiffs of his under arms as he went in case he was unknowingly offensive. But his clothes were new and he'd had a thorough scrubbing that morning. In Snape's own bathtub, he realised. Snape quested again, frowned, then lifted the front of his own robes to his nose, finally dropping them with an exasperated huff. He waved his wand over himself to cast a quick scouring spell but seemed disappointed by the results.

"I'll have to fumigate," he muttered. "I should have known burning his clothes would not have been enough."

Despite his bewilderment, Harry smiled at that last statement. Besides the novelty of Snape actually talking to himself, Harry was darkly amused that his prediction had been correct, after all. Madam Trelawney would have been proud. But before Harry could properly reflect on the oddity of Snape thinking he smelled, the stair ground to a halt, and Snape wasted no time rapping softly on Dumbledore's office door.

This, Harry knew, was the moment of truth. He could stay behind on the stair for Merlin knew how long and wait on Snape to return, or he could follow him inside. Of course, the only real question was how he would manage the latter. Because Harry had known when he slipped onto the staircase just where, at least in the short-term, this adventure would end. He gripped his cloak tightly and waited for his opportunity.


	21. The Insolence of Office

Dumbledore called permission for his visitor to enter. Snape opened the door and stepped inside, and once there waited politely to be recognised. Harry had ample space and opportunity, and he slipped inside and was scooting surreptitiously down the outer wall of Dumbledore's study before the Headmaster had even looked up from his paperwork.

"Ah, Severus! Come in."

Without comment, Snape closed the door behind him and went to settle lightly into one of the chairs arranged in front of Dumbledore's desk. Harry noted it was the same one he'd occupied on his last visit and vaguely wondered if Snape would notice the half-moon scars Harry'd left in the wood of the armrests.

"Trouble sleeping, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, laying aside his quill.

Snape's reply was sneering out of habit, but Harry heard no bite in it, only weariness. "Was that meant to be funny, Albus?"

"Forgive me. I forget it's a sore subject for you."

"No, you don't," Snape muttered. Dumbledore chuckled.

"I've not had much sleep myself, as you might imagine." His smile soured and Harry thought the Headmaster did indeed look tired as he settled back into his seat, casting a dark eye over the chaos of parchment and broken sealing wax strewed across his desk.

"So? Are they...?"

"No, no. Not for the moment, at least. If they had been seriously considering it, the Ministry would have closed us days ago."

Snape nodded slowly. "Have many have we lost?"

"Far too," Dumbledore sighed.

"The fools."

Dumbledore simply shook his head.

Harry was struck by the ease and familiarity with which the two spoke to one another, and by the subtlety and economy of their conversation. So much was left unsaid, except by nuance, that Harry thought that all the interactions he'd witnessed them have with others (himself included) were almost theatrical in comparison. It was as if, in private, pretence fell away from them like dust. And while they were still very like the men Harry knew, alone together they were somehow distilled.

"Do give them _some_ credit, Severus. They all know how close they came to finding themselves in Molly's position. It is human nature to want to keep what is precious close to you in times of trouble." Snape sniffed as though he didn't think much of human nature. "After all," Dumbledore went on. "Why would Voldemort come knocking on their door? It's a slightly different matter here."

And the simple reason for that, Harry thought ruefully, was standing invisible a few feet away. Every student in the Great Hall that morning had known it, too. Sulking, Harry sank back against the bookshelves behind him, wincing as they groaned faintly. Though, neither of the men seemed to notice. They were lost in their own thoughts, which Harry suspected probably bore a resemblance to his.

"Somehow," Dumbledore said, fixing Snape with a contemplative look, "I don't think you came here at this hour to discuss the state of enrollment. What's really troubling you, Severus?"

"What else?"

"Harry." It wasn't a question. Neither was it a surprise to Harry, who braced himself for the laundry list of complaints he was sure would follow.

"I'm concerned about him, Albus."

Harry was so taken aback by the simple sincerity of the statement, he almost dropped his cloak. Hugging it tighter, he felt himself drawn forward, as though he must confirm for himself, by seeing the words spoken, that these sentiments were actually coming from Snape. Invisibility made him bolder than was wise, but though he'd liked to have planted himself practically in the Potions Master's lap, he settled for standing behind the unoccupied chair to Snape's right.

"How delightfully unlike you, Severus."

"I'm serious," Snape replied, unfazed by Dumbledore's teasing. From his new vantage point, Harry could see that the irritation that tugged at Snape's expression was not directed at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore looked at him with a sober fondness. "As I have known you ever to be, my old friend. What do you propose?"

Snape shook his head, at a loss. "He's volatile."

"He does have a history of it, I'm afraid," he conceded, glancing, not without humour, at the bare spaces on many of his shelves. Harry blushed and ducked his head, shamefaced, even though no one could see his contrition.

"You know this is different," Snape said, gesturing at those same shelves, though resting a pointed finger at the particular empty space once occupied by Phineas. "He's becoming unpredictable. We can't very well have him pulling a Lupin."

Dumbledore scowled, clearly as annoyed by the analogy as Harry was, but bit his tongue. When he replied, it was with less fondness. "What would you have us do, Severus? Keep him cloistered in the dungeons?"

"Gods, no!" Harry was satisfied by the horrified expression on Snape's face. "But I still think he's too unstable to be wandering about the Castle untended. Just loosing him back into the student population is not going to work." Harry was a little irritated by the way Snape made it sound as if they had re-released an injured animal into the wild. But, well... "I know you think he and the Granger girl will heal each other somehow," Snape added cynically. "But it's an unnecessarily dangerous experiment."

"Neither can entirely replace what the other has lost, but I feel they can do more for each other than any of us can do for either of them."

"That might be true, given time. It's the interim that concerns me. They're both still only children, Albus."

"You underestimate them," Dumbledore said with quiet conviction, earning back a bit of Harry's affection.

"Does it ever occur to you that perhaps you overestimate them? Granger's cleverness won't banish her guilt. It's not something that can be puzzled out, though she seems to be making herself half-sick with trying. And even if it could be, I can't see how Harry can help." (Harry wondered just when he'd stopped being 'Potter.') "Especially given that he's spent the last several days unconscious by choice."

"A choice _you_ presented him," Dumbledore interjected, pointing a slightly accusatory finger. Clearly, he hadn't agreed with Snape's judgment.

"It was a choice I felt he deserved to make," Snape said, becoming slightly combative. He pointed a finger of his own. "Just because you thrust expectation at him doesn't mean he possesses some latent superpower, Albus. It's unfair of you to project your hopes on the boy. And he _is_ a boy, Albus. One who's had to face things that would have defeated grown men." Dumbledore made a gesture to indicate this was his point exactly, but Snape waved him off. "He's not an Order member, Albus. He made no resolution to join this fight. Could not have made an informed one, at any rate. There are no ideologies propping him up. He's a warrior by chance not choice, and his strength is not limitless."

The speech left Harry a little breathless. But Snape had no way of knowing he wasn't entirely correct. Harry _had_ made a choice, and part of him wanted to confess then and there the conversation he'd had with Voldemort. Because Snape wasn't entirely incorrect, either. Harry had never felt so weak.

Dumbledore began to argue, but Snape did not give him an opportunity. "You don't get it, Albus. You see him as you need him to be, as he _could_ be, not as he is. But _you_ weren't the one," he said with surprising vehemence. " _I_ found him in the mud beside that train. And if you'd seen what I saw then..." To Harry's astonishment, Snape actually seemed to choke up. He took a calming breath and tried again. "If you'd been the one to find him, you wouldn't be sitting there now defending his dubious exceptionalism and ignoring the fact that _he_ _is only human_."

Snape was highly agitated, and clearly not finished. Though it looked as if the effort pained him, Dumbledore respectfully remained silent as Snape gathered his thoughts. Harry's own had taken a holiday and he simply stared, dumbfounded, at the Potions Master as if seeing the man for the first time.

"When I came upon him, he was in the clutches of a Dementor. And when I pulled him from the ground, when he realised the Dementor had gone and he _wasn't_ going to die, do you want to know what I saw in his eyes, Albus? _Disappointment."_ Snape leaned forward and held Dumbledore's gaze firmly to make sure the gravity of what he'd just said was understood. By the ashen look on Dumbledore's face, it clearly had. Despite his best efforts, Harry's memories of that night came back to him, fresh and re-solidified. He recalled the look on Snape's face when he'd locked eyes with him, his chin still cupped in Snape's hand. There had been apprehension and, now that Harry thought to look for it, something like pity but less patronising. Harry was still picturing it when Snape continued in a low voice. "He'd literally stared his own death in the face, and he hadn't just accepted it, Albus. He'd embraced it." Snape cursed quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No one his age should even be _capable_ of that expression. And now, _blast_ the boy, it haunts me every time I look at him. So, you think on that, Albus, the next time you want to play 'Let's Just See What Happens.'"

Dumbledore was silent for a long while, during which Snape fumed inwardly. Harry was both touched by Snape's insight and humbled by his anger on Harry's behalf, and a sudden swelling of gratitude made him want to raise his hand and lay it atop Snape's in silent thanks. Though, for several reasons, that was out of the question. Harry tried reminding himself, firmly, that this was _Snape_ ; surely the last thing, directly below bubotuber pus, that Harry could ever be inclined to willing lay hands on. But despite his best efforts, the urge didn't really pass.

"No boy his age should carry the burden he bears, Severus. Of course, I know that," Dumbledore said finally, emotion thickening his voice. "If I could, I would not hesitate to shoulder it for him. But you know as well as I that that is not our fate."

Snape did not appear to think much of Dumbledore's heartfelt proclamation and answered it with perturbed silence and some unnecessary rearrangement of his robes. "The boy cannot continue like this. Whatever strategy you devised for him before that train left London, it will have to be revised. He's...changed."

"Perhaps it is you who have changed," Dumbledore ventured. Snape scoffed but looked uncomfortable.

" _Everything_ has changed. It bothers me immensely that the Dark Lord did not make me aware of his plans beforehand," Snape confided.

"Do you think he suspects?"

"Who can say?" Snape said wearily. "I have a feeling that if his suspicions were serious, I would not be sitting here now. The attack was Bella's project. It's possible he kept it from me only to placate her. She's never trusted me. But I do know that, despite it not being as deadly as anticipated, the Dark Lord was nonetheless very pleased with the results. Somehow he knew Harry was aboard, but his direct attacks on him continue to fail in 'fortunate' ways. At this rate, all the protections surrounding the boy will be stripped."

"At least he is still a virgin," Dumbledore said resignedly. Harry wondered what on Earth _that_ could have to do with the present conversation. "He _is_ still a virgin, isn't he, Severus?"

"Positively reeks of it," Snape grimaced. Dumbledore seemed relieved.

"By the way, I never got around to thanking you for that, Severus. Unorthodox as it was, I believe it really was the best thing for him at the time. I trust the temptation wasn't uncomfortable for you?"

"Please, Albus. I've been teaching here for how many years? I'm all but immune to 'the temptation' by now."

Harry was so confused he felt he quite needed to sit down, but no inconspicuous options presented themselves. Harry's virginity? The temptation? Meaning what, Snape was some sort of paedophile? A paedophile whom Dumbledore had allowed to secrete Harry off to his hidden dungeon rooms?

But...that was ludicrous. Even if Dumbledore hadn't objected to such a thing (and Harry felt certain he would have) Remus would have prevented it.

If he even knew he should have.

Now Harry _really_ wanted to know what lay behind that locked door. The real one. He was suddenly less keen on Snape. How did Harry--or Dumbledore for that matter--know what might have happened while Harry was 'unconscious by choice'? It didn't seem likely to Harry, but it did at least seem possible, and Harry suddenly had a hard time breathing.

"And Loraina?" Dumbledore inquired, barely distracting Harry from some very uncomfortable thoughts.

"Loraina," Snape sighed. "Temptation really is the least of our worries where she is concerned."

"You think I should not have brought her here," Dumbledore divined. Snape's raised eyebrow said this was an obvious understatement.

"I know faculty is spread thinly, but she really should never have been on duty alone. _This_ morning, Albus? Really."

"It was an oversight," Dumbledore said with only a hint of apology.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Quite a lot of those happening lately." Dumbledore looked as though he couldn't imagine to what Snape was referring, so the Potions Master clarified. "Granger?"

Hermione? Reluctantly letting go of his concerns about possible molestation, Harry listened more closely.

Dumbledore turned up his hands as if to ask what Snape would have him do now, after the fact. "Miss Granger, it would seem, simply decided to return to her dormitory without alerting anyone. I don't believe the damage or the danger was too great."

"You lost her, Albus."

"Only temporarily," Dumbledore replied testily. "If the matter so concerned you, Severus, you certainly could have seen to it personally. But if you will recall, things were, to put it mildly, a bit chaotic."

"And if _you_ will recall, I was tending to the _other_ one at the time," Snape snapped back. "I'm not trying to fight with you, Albus. I'm simply saying we cannot afford any more mistakes at this point. The circumstances have never been more precarious." Both men made a visible effort to calm themselves so the conversation could continue more civilly. "Harry should be kept from Loraina until he has gained better mastery of his emotions. The link he shares with the Dark Lord is too dangerous."

"He must attend classes, Severus."

So this Loraina was a teacher? But the only new teacher was...

"I appreciate that, but his interactions with her should be confined to _only_ that until I make more progress with him. Their private instruction will have to wait. She shouldn't have even accompanied him on the train."

Rainey! _Loraina_. Loraina Cobbleshot. Harry knew that name but from where?

"For now it is far more important that Harry not accidentally reveal her presence."

Dumbledore nodded. "I agree. I have no problems with that."

Snape nodded as well but still looked anxious. "If the Dark Lord discovered my omission, it would shatter his trust in me. I could not salvage it, Albus"

"I would not have you attempt it," Dumbledore said, once more kindly.

"But if the boy keeps secrets, Albus! We may not even be aware a breach has occurred. I fear there is something he is not telling us."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said calmly. "But, barring that?" Snape ran a clawed hand through his hair and considered his answer.

"Barring that, the deception should hold. So few, even of the Death Eaters, are aware of his enmity. The Dark Lord was humiliated and those of us present were forbidden from ever speaking of it. Any student who might have betrayed her to their parents, even accidentally, is now at Durmstrang. Except for Draco. But who knows if he has any contact with his father."

"Yes," Dumbledore said. " _Is_ there any word on Draco's father?" Snape shook his head.

"Lucius knows better than to show his face. But for his cowardice, it would have been an almost flawless escape. As it is, almost half of those unmasked after the incident in the Ministry have been recaptured. It would take something exceptional to win him back into the Dark Lord's good graces. Though, delivering Loraina would undoubtedly do the trick. Lucius, unfortunately, was present for the offense, and so knows exactly her value to the Dark Lord. Should Draco have any contact with his father, let us hope the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is not a detail he feels is worth sharing." While Harry digested this new information, Snape groaned and ran a hand over his face. "Nothing is going as planned, Albus."

"It rarely does." Dumbledore's smile was wry.

"And we still haven't worked out the problem with Harry."

Harry could imagine that line in quotation marks. He wondered how many of these late night meetings had been held to discuss 'the problem with Harry.'

"It's early days, still. He will get past his grief and his anger will cool."

"You know it's more complex than that, Albus, and I do wish you would not insult my intelligence by pretending you aren't aware. He's in more danger than ever, and I suspect you know why." Dumbledore seemed to be waiting to be told what he was supposed to be aware of already. Harry wished Snape would stop looking so uncomfortable and just tell him already. "Surely you know it's more than just a psychic link they share...I see the Dark Lord in him," Snape said ominously, causing Harry to make a small, involuntary sound of protest. Both men looked in Harry's general direction, but Dumbledore was the only one to indicate he saw anything but empty air. His eyes narrowed slightly, and Harry somehow managed to suppress the impulse to bolt for the door. Before Snape had an opportunity to register proper suspicion, Dumbledore spoke.

"Come now, Severus," he gently admonished, giving no further indication he might be aware of Harry's presence. "Do you really have so low an opinion of him?"

"I'm not referring to their character," Snape said, not recognising the diversion for what it was and seeming annoyed with Dumbledore's misinterpretation. "Nor even their circumstances, though they _are_ too similar for comfort. Harry is a good boy," he conceded with much hesitation. "You know better than most the Dark Lord never was. There is a wholesomeness in Harry the Dark Lord was born without. But there is also something Dark in Harry, as well. Something planted, not inherent. I sensed it the first time I ever laid eyes on him. It quite made my skin crawl," Snape recalled with a shudder. "It took me some time to appreciate that it was more than the unpleasant shock of seeing a miniature version of his father. Or that my continued aversion had a source other than his disobedience, disrespect, _recklessness_..." Apparently, several more examples had come to mind, but Snape cut the list short. "My point is when the Dark Lord returned it became stronger, more distinct. I hadn't mentioned it before because I wasn't entirely certain until the attack." Snape was so agitated, he was actually wringing his hands at this point. "My _Mark_ responds to the boy," he confided in an almost whisper, idly scratching at it through his sleeve. Harry didn't want to accept that it could be true, but he couldn't help wondering if the thing was bothering him now and if Harry's presence really was the reason for it. He raised an uncertain hand to his own scar. "When I say I see the Dark Lord in him, I mean it literally. I fear he sowed something in Harry when he gave him that scar, and my concern is that it will act as a cancer, eating away at him. Every time tragedy visits it becomes more pronounced. If we aren't careful, Albus, I'm afraid it will consume him."

Harry was unsure how he felt about this hypothesis. He'd always seen his scar as something innocuous at best, inconvenient at worst. It was a reminder of what his parents had sacrificed, of why he continued to fight. Harry'd never really disliked his scar before, except that it attracted unwanted attention from strangers.

But that was Before.

Ever since the cold destruction he'd visited on Dumbledore's office that night, his scar had felt...alien. As if it was not really a part of him, but something parasitic. Its tingling was no longer a helpful alarm but a portent of Harry's disgrace. It was no longer benign. And the implications of Snape's diagnosis made Harry feel suddenly ill.

"I've suspected it for some time," Dumbledore admitted gravely, glancing briefly in Harry's direction. "Which is precisely why I feel it is in Harry's best interest not to be allowed to become mired in his feelings of loss, but rather to move forward in his training and for us to find a way for him to vanquish Voldemort once and for all. I share your concerns, Severus. You must realise that. But I have immense faith in Harry." Harry wondered how much of what Dumbledore had just said was for Snape's benefit and how much for Harry's.

"Then what do we do about his temper?" Snape asked, sounding defeated. "You're right, we cannot keep him permanently sedated. But we also cannot have him transmitting everything he sees to the Dark Lord. I can hardly show the boy any kindness if _he's_ watching."

"Ah. So you are feeling more kindly toward him," Dumbledore needled. Snape shot daggers at the old man with his eyes and fidgeted in his chair.

"He's still completely insufferable," he grumbled. Dumbledore smiled knowingly at the Potions Master in a way that, if Harry had been Snape, he would have been contemplating a good number of hexes.

"Would it be so terrible to come to an understanding?" And again, Dumbledore glanced in Harry's direction.

"It's immaterial. The boy loathes me."

"Well, give him less reason and see if he comes around," Dumbledore said encouragingly.

Snape was clearly put out but did not argue. Though, it appeared he'd had enough of Dumbledore's company for one night and he stood. "I suppose I'll let you get on with it, then," he said, indicating the paperwork. Dumbledore laced his fingers in his lap and smiled.

"Goodnight to you, too, Severus," he said without sarcasm.

Snape turned and strode swiftly toward the door but then paused, clearly debating something. Finally, he crossed over to the cabinet containing the Headmaster's Pensieve. There he extracted and then deposited a memory. Harry suspected he knew which one. Then, without a word of explanation, he made for the door.

And here is where Harry's brilliant accidental caper met its fatal flaw. Getting in had been simple, but how in hell was he going to get out? He felt certain Dumbledore knew he was there, but he had no desire to confirm it by staying back for a chat.

Harry was at Snape's heels, but the man only opened the door wide enough to let himself through, and Harry watched in mild horror as it began to swing shut behind him.

"Oh, Severus," Dumbledore called as if only just remembering something. Snape sighed, may have cursed, and reentered. And in doing so he left the door wide open behind him to facilitate an easy escape.

Harry did not hesitate. He was out the door and on the steps as behind him Dumbledore said innocently, "Nothing important, really. It simply occurred to me that I did not offer you a sweet. Rumdoodle?"

"Really, Albus, now you're just being cruel."

Even from the bottom of the stair, Harry could hear Dumbledore chuckle just before the door above slammed shut and Professor Snape stomped down the steps past him.


	22. Out of My Weakness and My Melancholy

As Harry watched Snape disappear into the shadows, it occurred to him he might very well follow him. But Harry'd had enough adventure for one night. Besides, he knew he'd never find his way back out of the dungeons. The idea still tempted. Being stuck in Snape's chambers suddenly seemed preferable to being stuck in his dormitory. Strange that. But there were so many variables, and Harry was too overwhelmed by the conversation he'd just overheard to apply his brain to much else at the moment.

The good news was that his inner conflict had all but been dissolved, at least where the Headmaster was concerned.

Snape, though... 

There was more there--much more--to explore. His conflict concerning the Potions Master had simply been replaced by confusion. Harry wasn't interested in using the man for a cheap thrill anymore. He really did want to come to that understanding Dumbledore had mentioned, but that would take time and interaction. And Harry's reactions to Snape were so ingrained (and likely vice versa) that there was no telling how long it would take or what form it would assume.

So, Harry wasn't haunted by the things that had driven him from Gryffindor Tower earlier that evening. He'd acquired a new spectre. A malignancy he'd felt long before Snape had diagnosed it, but one he had no clue what to do about.

Harry was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of worrying. He wanted to hear a voice that wasn't in his own head. He wanted to hear a voice that knew he listened and would return the favour.

Harry was still unsure how he felt about what had happened between Remus and him that morning. Even now, he didn't want to analyse why he felt so eager to see him again, he simply accepted that he did. After playing the bastion for Hermione all day, Harry realised he needed one of his own far more than he'd like to admit. And the only safe haven he had left was Remus Lupin.

Harry's knock was timid. He told himself that he didn't really want to wake his guardian should he have already retired for the evening. But in truth, as quickly as Harry had beaten a path to his door, now that it stood before him, Harry wasn't sure he was ready to face Remus again. He wasn't sure if he sought comfort or just a balm for his insecurity. Remus' attention could provide either or both. Did provide both, depending on Harry's needs and actions; depending on his motives, which he couldn't be sure of anymore.

Even as Harry craved Remus' attention, it made him slightly uncomfortable. It was so new, so different. It wasn't Cho's blushing, doe-eyed glances or Ginny's awestruck gaze. It was mature and knowledgeable, and something unspoken about its nature seemed so forbidden. Which, if Harry would have allowed himself to lend it any thought at all, only made him crave it all the more.

And so he was unsure if he was relieved or disappointed when the door opened to reveal Remus standing in a shabby housecoat, searching the apparently empty hallway with a confused expression. Harry thought of slipping inside unseen, as he had to the Headmaster's office, to silently draw strength from Remus' presence without the necessity of explaining why he'd come, which suddenly seemed like such a painful prospect. But before Harry could act on this mad impulse, Remus spoke.

"Harry?" he asked uncertainly.

With a small, bashful smile, Harry let the cloak fall away from his face. "Hullo, Professor," he greeted.

Remus quickly recovered from the shock of having his ward materialise from thin air in front of him. "I thought we'd had this conversation already," he chided playfully, but his quirky smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm just Remus now, remember?"

Harry nodded, then had to catch himself from sighing contentedly. The way Remus' eyes crinkled just so at the corners, as they did now with sudden concern, had become an especial weakness of Harry's. It was something he associated specifically with Remus, and so by extension with the calm he always felt in the man's presence. Seeing it felt like coming home.

"But why are you out of bed at this hour?" Remus asked. "Is something the matter?"

"I...I can't sleep," Harry offered lamely. Closer to the truth, Harry was afraid to dream.

Remus nodded his sad understanding, but it was more than regret that pinched his expression, and the well-veiled apprehension that caused him to glance subtly down both ends of the dark corridor made Harry uncomfortable. Perhaps Harry shouldn't have come. Of course, he shouldn't have come. He'd just go. Harry started to back away, but before he could stammer an embarrassed apology, Remus seemed to come to a decision.

"Come in, Harry," he offered, lips tensing into a gentle almost-smile. "I'll make us some tea."

Rather reluctantly now, Harry stepped inside and waited while Remus rushed to clear away the things he'd been studying. The hesitance of Remus' invitation left Harry feeling awkward. Though he'd known where to find them, Harry had never visited Remus' private quarters before, and Harry supposed it must be odd for a student to be visiting at all, especially so late at night, despite that Remus had left him with an open invitation that morning. Harry felt very out of place. He was unsure what he had expected when he had decided to come here. If he'd expected anything at all, somehow, this wasn't it.

"Come on in, Harry," Remus said more warmly, beckoning him further inside with a smile as Harry was still hovering near the door as though he might bolt. He was apparently feeling much more relaxed now that they were away from possible prying eyes. "I'll have this in hand soon enough." He deposited the former mess in a slightly less disorderly pile atop a rickety side table. "Make yourself comfortable. If you can," he added with a slightly embarrassed laugh, gesturing to the motley assortment of furnishings scattered about the room. "I'll just be a moment with the tea."

Harry shuffled further inside, trying to return Remus' smile with the same ease with which Remus had given it and failing.

There really wasn't much to choose from in the way of seating. The wooden chair in the corner leaned slightly to the left and seemed less than trustworthy. Harry cast it a dubious glance and moved instead to the comfortable-looking, if rather smallish, couch set snugly before the grate. It was careworn but all the more inviting because of it. It suited Remus perfectly. Harry perched on the edge of the cushion and looked around, trying not to fidget.

Remus seemed to have far more possessions than Harry remembered from Grimmauld Place. There were several books lining a set of shelves, sharing the space with a number of trinkets that appeared to be souvenirs of an adventure in some wild place; random objects whose significance were understood only by their owner. There was also, most surprisingly, a handful of framed drawings. They were little more than sketches but highly expressive and very realistic. Harry wondered if Remus had done them himself. They looked as though they might have been from some exotic field journal, being somehow rough and refined at the same time. The eyes of the creatures depicted shone with a savage humanity. Harry liked them very much, and his admiration of Remus' obvious, unpretentious talent added yet another dimension to the fondness Harry felt for him. Harry couldn't believe he'd never noticed them before.

Though, Harry realised he'd only been in Remus' rooms at Grimmauld Place once over the summer, and he hadn't been very observant at the time. At least, not of anything besides Remus himself.

That memory stirred itself in Harry, further confusing his feelings about both Remus and the present situation. So much had happened immediately after their strange conversation that Harry hadn't taken the time to think about what Remus had said that night. But he remembered it now, understanding it a bit better since their little exchange that morning. And the two events together seemed to put Remus' initial nervousness into perfect context. In fact, as the pieces fell firmly into place, Harry began to feel nervous himself, and more and more like a git with each passing second.

But there was nothing for it. He was there, with no clue how he might excuse himself gracefully. Besides, Harry realised rather selfishly, he didn't really want to try.

Looking about still, for a moment Harry was almost surprised not to find a tank against the wall swarming with Grindylow, though he felt immediately foolish for it. After all, they'd simply been a part of the lesson plan before. What Remus was teaching him now was slightly different. Still, there were no cages swinging in the corners filled with vampire bats. Harry thought he did see one in the photo on the cover of one of the books Remus had tidied, though. It flapped just out of view beneath the crooked stack of parchment that had been unceremoniously dumped on top of it.

Harry also spied, on the mantle beside a jar of floo powder, the photo of Sirius and Remus that he remembered from Grimmauld Place. A furtive glance over his shoulder revealed Remus setting the tea to steep as he went in search of cups, so Harry dared a closer look, rising and lifting the picture from its stand. Harry was strangely fascinated by the photo, especially since he now knew its significance. It was much more recent than he'd realised, and the gentle expressions they wore as they looked at each other were now more heart-warming, and also somewhat more confusing.

Harry was just so unfamiliar with the concept. It was one thing to know that there existed, somewhere, men who fancied one another. It was entirely another to know them personally. And Harry wondered on how odd it seemed for two blokes to, well...fall in love. How did they even go about it? It wasn't as if societal norms allowed for the same opportunities as they did for a boy and a girl. How and when does one realise they are gay? And having recognised it, how does one man approach another? Without risking a black eye, that is. It wasn't like you could bring them flowers or invite them to dinner... Or could you?

Harry shook his head. It was the logistics of initiating the relationship that baffled him, not the relationship itself. And Harry stared at the photograph he held, wondering how it had begun for these two men who meant so much to him. What had led up to the taking of this picture of the two clasping arms in a gesture as innocent as it was intimate, their postures speaking of easy companionship? Looking at it, anyone who didn't know better might only have thought them best mates. Anyone who did know could clearly see there was more between them, something perhaps rediscovered after years of respective loneliness and nurtured into-

"Care to take a seat, Harry?"

Harry started and, for a terrifying moment, thought he would fumble and drop the picture. He quickly returned it to the safety of its stand and resumed his perch on the couch, blushing as if he'd just been caught peeping. Remus glanced at the photo but did not comment, he only slipped the tray with the promised tea onto the table before Harry.

"So," he said as he poured. "Trouble sleeping." It wasn't quite a question, but it _was_ obviously an invitation. Harry nodded as he accepted the steaming cup.

"Actually, I think maybe I've just had my fill of it for a while," he said a little grudgingly. Remus nodded, pouring his own tea and, Harry noticed, throwing Harry several curious, sidelong glances. Harry was already embarrassed for even being there, but now he became very self-conscious, sipping his tea as if he wished he could crawl inside his cup and hide. He somehow fought the urge to smooth his impossible hair. It was with no small amount of horror that Harry realised he'd not combed it at all that day. He groaned inwardly. He and Hermione must have made quite the pair.

"I'm sorry," Remus said finally, returning the teapot to its tray. "But would you mind removing your cloak, Harry? It's a little disconcerting watching a disembodied head sipping tea," he explained with a soft chuckle.

_I'm such an idiot._

Harry shrugged the cloak off with an apologetic smile. He'd completely forgotten, and he berated himself for thinking that there might have been some other reason behind Remus' scrutiny. After all, just because Remus was... _gay_...well, that didn't mean that he...

And really, Harry was, for once, wearing a shirt. Just because he had a bad habit of parading around half nude didn't mean that he should always expect Remus to...

Anyway, what was there to look at, even? Harry was just a gawky teenager, right? Snape certainly never failed to comment on how scrawny he was. Of course Remus wouldn't be looking at him  _that_ way. There was nothing in his expression now but kindness and good humour. That Harry realised he was secretly disappointed that Remus hadn't been 'looking' opened an entirely different can of flobberworms. He felt his cheeks colour and decided he was thinking far too much. He made a resolution to stop altogether.

"Er..." (That was a good start.) "I'm glad I didn't wake you," he stammered into his tea, which he had taken up again in his now visible hands.

"It would have been quite alright if you had," Remus assured him, settling onto the other end of the couch. "Though, there's little danger of it, to be honest."

Harry did notice that Remus appeared tired as usual, but not as bone-weary as he'd seemed at Grimmauld Place. Harry wondered if it was the house itself that had so drained him. If so, he was very glad that Remus was free of it for a while.

"You aren't sleeping?" Harry asked innocently. Remus gave a small laugh and shook his head, swirling the contents of his cup as though attempting to divine the solution to his insomnia in its dregs. Though, the matter seemed simple enough to Harry. "You might ask Snape to make you something," he suggested helpfully. After all, the man had succeeded in keeping Harry unconscious for ages. But Remus instantly dismissed the idea.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's my problem, and it isn't his responsibility," Remus replied with a polite smile. "Professor Snape does quite enough for me already."

Of course. The Wolfsbane Potion. It hadn't occurred to Harry that Snape must still make it. Harry wondered how difficult it must be and could imagine Snape grumbled through the entire process. If Harry was Remus, he wouldn't want to ask anything further of the man, either.

"I can always ask Poppy for something if necessary. But don't fret about me, Harry," he said, lightly patting the hand that lay between them on the cushion. "I'm fine," he smiled. Harry nodded but was very distracted by the way his fingers were now tingling, having been reminded of the last time that hand had touched his, and Harry couldn't understand how something so innocent could make him so giddy.

"How was your day?" Remus asked, ruining Harry's warm reminiscence. His tone had been light and conversational, but his attempt at nonchalance was rather betrayed by the concerned attention in his eyes, which were locked to Harry's. Harry looked away. He didn't want to talk about his day; how badly it had begun or how empty he'd become as it progressed. He didn't even particularly want to talk about what he'd just overheard between Snape and Dumbledore. But what had he expected? Chit chat about the weather?

"It was..." _Just brilliant_ , Harry thought wryly. _I spent it babysitting a half-mad Hermione. Right after almost getting expelled for sending a boy for an extended stay in the infirmary. Oh, and apparently I have Voldemort cancer. Smashing, really._ "It was alright," Harry finally managed to murmur, failing to convince either of them. "McGonagall's given me my schedule. And all the homework I've missed," he added with a wince. "But I haven't looked at any of it yet. I didn't quite have the stomach for a week's worth of History of Magic."

Remus looked perplexed. "A week? I'm sorry, Harry. Did she not explain?" Harry looked at him blankly, realising he had, once again, been left in the dark about something. "You've only missed one day of classes," Remus said brightly as if this was meant to make Harry feel better. "They had to be postponed, naturally," Remus began, somewhat more sombrely. "Come Monday there were still quite a few students in the infirmary. Nothing too serious," he added, as though Harry might have been concerned about a few bruised strangers. "But most were quite unable to attend class. Actually, for a moment we thought Hogwarts might have to close its doors. After word of the attack went out, parents began arriving in droves to remove their children. And after the investigation, the Ministry seemed to be of much the same mind as the parents. Dumbledore only convinced them to allow us to remain open on the condition that additional wards be placed on the grounds. That occupied the staff for a couple of days. And then day before yesterday there was the matter of...the memorial."

Remus' eyes cut to Harry as if to gauge his reaction. But though Harry gave none at all, Remus set his cup on the table and turned to him, his posture saturated with apology. Of course, McGonagall had mentioned the memorial that morning. In fact, Harry realised, she might have told him much of what Remus had just revealed, but after she'd mentioned the ceremony, Harry had tuned out.

"I'm sorry you missed it, Harry," Remus said with aching sincerity. Funnily, Harry wasn't in the least. "We'd debated on waking you, but Professor Snape had said it was ill-advised to forcibly counter the effects of the Draught."

Harry broke off his study of the stones beneath his feet to blink quizzically at Remus. He hadn't been taking the potion then. Snape knew this. And Harry wasn't sure if he should be grateful to the man for his fib on Harry's behalf or upset that he'd been denied a choice in the matter. Denied, in fact, by the man who had just advocated Harry's ability to choose to Dumbledore. Harry finally decided his relief at having been spared the ordeal outweighed his indignation. Harry's already mottled feelings toward the Potions Master were jumbled within him once again, but as the revelation threatened to overwhelm him, Harry quickly changed the subject.

"How are..." Curiously, Harry found it difficult to voice Ron's name. "How're the Weasleys?" he asked softly. He hadn't yet forgotten about the scene he'd witnessed outside Dumbledore's office, though he still felt as detached from it as he did from everything else. Remus shook his head as if remembering the same, though with far more emotion than Harry was capable of at the moment.

"They're dealing as best they can," he informed Harry sadly. "Arthur's taken a leave of absence. Bill and Charlie are staying over to help Molly. And of course, she didn't mean what she said to Percy. That's all sorted and he's there, as well. Poor Ginny. She'd had a knock to the head on the train and has only just woken up a few days ago. She didn't take the news very well."

Remus paused. Harry supposed the man had been present when the news had been delivered, and the memory of it clearly still touched him. Though, the effect was subtle. As was everything else about Remus, really. And as much as Harry knew that deep down, somewhere, he must be worried about Ginny, too, it was Remus who was here before him. It was Remus that filled his thoughts just now. And Harry reflected on how little emotion he'd ever seen Remus display. Well, it was frequent, really, but restrained.

He was always warm and kind and caring. But even that, as well as any distress or concern, was always expressed with a certain reserve. Remus never failed to react, he simply did so very gracefully, and it seemed to Harry that Remus was forever putting the full force of his own feelings on hold to act as a source of strength for others. It was something Harry realised he'd come to take for granted. He had taken it for granted when he decided to come here tonight, in fact. When the world was crumbling around him, Remus was there with a strong arm to hold Harry up even as it held him back, and a calm voice in his ear to save him from himself.

Regardless of his actions or inactions, Harry could tell Remus did feel strongly. He could see it in the depths of his amber eyes. They only seemed to show what Remus chose: patient kindness to hide irritation, concern to mask pain. But within them, if one bothered to look, was an inkling of the emotion Remus denied himself.

How important it must be to him to remain in command. Harry knew he detested the beast in his blood, could imagine how painful it must be to have one's body betray them so utterly every full moon, and Harry could see that Remus compensated for this betrayal by maintaining such strict self-control the remaining twenty-seven days of the month.

But it was Remus' potential for passion that intrigued Harry, the kind of passion that had driven him to set fire to Sirius' mother and hunt down the man's betrayer. Harry suddenly wished he could see it, see some glimpse of abandon in that gentle face. Harry wondered if perhaps Sirius had been the only one fortunate enough to witness it and, inexplicably, Harry found himself rather jealous of his late godfather.

Remus noticed Harry's attention and seemed to remember he had intended to comfort his ward. "The Weasleys are a resilient lot," he assured Harry confidently. "They'll come out alright. They have each other."

Harry gave a quiet, ironic laugh at that. Each other. And now Harry had no one. He allowed himself a moment of self-pity, recalling the bitterness he'd felt watching the Weasleys mourn. He remembered the resentment he'd felt knowing he'd been denied that, that Voldemort hadn't simply killed his parents, he'd deprived Harry of a family. Again, Harry wondered who would weep for him when...

Harry shook his head and looked away. The anger he'd expected wouldn't come. Now, the realisation simply made him very sad, and he sighed as if shifting reality's burdensome weight to a less uncomfortable position on his young shoulders. 

That's when he felt Remus shift beside him. Harry didn't look up. He refused to ruin what he knew was about to happen, and his eyes fell slowly closed as Remus' hand draped itself softly over his. This was what he'd come here for, he realised. He suddenly wanted to be held so badly he felt the ache might kill him.

"But how are you, Harry?" Remus asked, the gentle concern and anxiety in his voice causing Harry's breath to catch in his throat. He only just seemed to recognize how lost he'd really felt, how alone. He didn't answer right away. He was almost afraid to breathe lest the hand withdraw, taking with it the strange spell it cast which was as calming as it was stimulating. To ensure its continued presence, Harry turned his hand under Remus' and wrapped his fingers tentatively but insistently around the other man's. After a moment of uncomfortable indecision, Remus seemed to convince himself of the innocence of the gesture and tightened his grasp. When Harry felt Remus' other hand join the first, he felt some of his tension melt away.

"I'm..." _Hollow. Bled dry._ "I'm better," he finally answered in a whisper to the stone floor. But Remus' touch made him feel bold as though, so long as it anchored him, he might safely brave the sea of insecurities in which he'd been adrift. "I just feel so...I don't know," he stumbled, trying to shape his formless uncertainty into words. "I feel like I don't know who I am anymore," he confessed, still in a whisper, as if to himself. "Everyone treats me like I'm some sort of leper. Like it's dangerous to just be around me. And the professors look at me like they're afraid of me or something. Or like I'm off my head. It's like they don't know what I'm going to do next. And you know?" he said with a desperate little laugh, the words tumbling out of him. "I'm starting to think they're right. All of them. _I_ don't know what I'm going to do next. I don't know how to control..." He stopped and shook his head as if to dislodge some of the panic that came with the confession. "I don't know how I did that to Dumbledore's office," he said, taking it for granted that Remus knew what he was referring to. The incident seemed to have been swept under the rug with whatever remained of the Headmaster's trinkets, but Harry couldn't imagine the man keeping it entirely to himself. "What if I do it again, Remus? And what if it's worse than before? I just get so angry," he almost growled, running his free hand across his face to collect himself. "There was this boy at breakfast. Remus, I wanted to hurt him," he said, looking at his guardian as if pleading for him to somehow go back in time and take the vile impulse away from him. "What if I had? What if..."

Harry trailed off, remembering the way his scar had prickled at the prospect of violence. The consequences of his potential lapse in control were just too much for him to consider. Remus swallowed carefully and drew a slow breath as if preparing to respond, but Harry realised he wasn't ready to hear the answer to that question and so rushed to pose another.

"Remus, how did you...? I mean, I know it was different with you and Sirius than it was with me and Ron," he said quickly, impatient with the blush that rose to his cheeks at having audibly acknowledged Remus and Sirius' relationship. "But did it help you at all? You know, to find Kreacher?" Harry wasn't sure what he would do with the answer. It wasn't as if he could very well track down Voldemort and exact his revenge. But he wanted to know, wanted to think there was some possible solution for the frustration he felt, even if they possibility was a remote one.

Remus gently but quickly disentangled his hands from Harry's, shame and discomfort flashing briefly across his features before they settled into something meditative. Harry was rather gutted by the sudden absence of his anchor and cursed himself, furiously wishing he could take the question back. "What I did, Harry," Remus began, looking away with a disconsolate shake of his head. "It was a terrible thing to have killed Kreacher. Being a house elf didn't make him any less-"

"Do you regret it, then?" Harry interrupted, almost incredulously. Remus did not answer, but his expression hardened slightly, which Harry interpreted with some satisfaction to mean he did not. Because Harry certainly didn't regret the man's actions, no matter how it appeared he was trying to convince Harry he should. "If you feel bad about it, why hang his head in Sirius' room?" It was, perhaps, an insensitive question, but Harry's impulsive curiosity got the better of him, as it usually did.

Remus looked at Harry as if trying to decide if he would believe what he was about to tell him. Finally, simply, he answered, "He asked me to." Harry gaped at Remus, too shocked to respond, but Remus hadn't finished. "I hadn't set out to kill Kreacher, Harry," he explained carefully. "I'd only meant to retrieve him. His betrayal aside, he had been privy to some very sensitive secrets of the Order. It would have been catastrophic if he'd been allowed to reach Malfoy Manor with an altered allegiance. But I'd neglected to mind the date, which was unforgivable," he said with a sharp shake of his head as though condemning himself. "I came to myself just before he..."

Remus paused as if wrestling with the memory, making Harry retract his previous wish. Of all the feelings he'd wanted to see Remus display, this present self-loathing was not one of them. Without thinking, Harry reached out to comfort him, stroking his hand down Remus' shoulder to rest on his back, wishing he could will away the tension twisting the muscles there...and hating himself for enjoying the contact under such unfortunate circumstances. Remus allowed it, even seemed to draw as much strength from the touch as Harry had taken from Remus' earlier.

"It was clear he would not survive," he went on more calmly, his voice nonetheless proving fickle. "So I asked him if he had a final request.

"It had been his lifelong ambition," Remus informed Harry, rapidly collecting himself, "to join his predecessors on the walls of Black Manor. He considered it an honour. But as we'd already begun removing the others and giving them a proper burial, well, it seemed like a difficult case to argue that Kreacher should be the exception. So I hung him in the one room I had some control over. Molly wasn't happy. But Dumbledore is aware of the circumstances. Kreacher won't be disturbed in my absence."

Harry stared at Remus as if he were a riddle that could be solved if only one looked hard enough. "Why haven't you told anyone else?" he asked softly, thinking of Hermione's distress and Molly's judgement. Everyone had misunderstood the gesture and simply thought Remus mad. Or a monster.

"It was no one else's business," Remus replied plainly.

Harry took a moment to reflect on that, how Remus was willing to bear that cross out of respect for the conniving little bloodthirsty life he'd stolen. He was a much better man than Harry. He felt no such inclination toward graciousness where Phineas was concerned.

Harry was still trying to decide if he was bothered by his own callousness when Remus reached behind him to remove the hand Harry still rested on his back. Harry was disappointed until he realised Remus had only done so that he might hold it in his own again, as if to comfort Harry after the disturbing news. And Harry, still reeling from Remus' confession, found he was rather intoxicated by Remus' nearness and the intimacy with which he stroked the back of Harry's hand with his thumb.

"Remus, do...do you think I'm dangerous?" he asked distractedly. Remus sighed and shook his head as though gathering his thoughts.

"Harry, it's perfectly human to feel the impulse toward violence when something precious is taken from you," he confided. "But even more human to rise above it. What I did, I did while...less than human. Don't feel bad for having the impulse, Harry. Reassure yourself that you did not act on it." Harry, thinking of Phineas, was confused until he realised Remus had been referring to Patrick.

But Harry was far from reassured. The absolute only reason Harry hadn't attacked Patrick was because Snape had intervened. He seemed to be the only person smart enough (or perhaps just cynical enough) not to credit Harry with more strength and maturity than he deserved. Harry never thought he'd appreciate Snape's low opinion of him, but for the first time it at least seemed realistic. Snape was right. Harry was a boy, and treating him otherwise did not make him so. But at the same time, Harry was enormously grateful for Remus' faith in him. He found he needed it, having no faith now in himself.

"Don't let it worry you so much, Harry," Remus urged, pulling Harry from his thoughts. "I know who you are even if you don't. You're your father's son. You are strong enough to make it through this. But if ever you aren't convinced, if ever you are just tired of the struggle, I'll always be here for you."

Harry was almost overcome by the unexpected emotion the comment evoked. Just when Harry didn't think he could be any fonder of Remus...

But Harry's statement of gratitude caught in his throat, so he only nodded, willing himself not to shed the tears that threatened. And he realized he was very glad he'd chosen to seek out Remus' company that night. It almost pained him knowing he'd have to leave. 

"Will we be starting our lessons together again soon?" he asked impulsively, looking up into Remus' face, which he suddenly realised was very close to his own.

"As soon as you'd like," Remus responded quietly with a smile.  _Now_ , Harry replied inwardly. He swallowed his eagerness and returned Remus' smile, almost hypnotized by the kind amber irises that seemed to dance for him. "Of course," Remus said, "you were meant to meet with Hagrid first thing tomorrow. But he's away unexpectedly. You and I could meet instead, if you'd like." Harry did not fail to catch the note of hopefulness in Remus' voice.

"Of course!" Harry agreed, a little too enthusiastically, earning a kind-hearted chuckle from Remus and a grin that made Harry's stomach flutter. However, as excited as he was by the prospect, the news of his friend's absence made Harry anxious. "But where's Hagrid gone?"

Remus only smiled in an apologetic way that meant he wasn't at liberty. "You'll be able to meet with Hagrid again soon enough. But for now, I think perhaps you should try to get some sleep. I need you to actually retain what I'll be teaching you tomorrow," he said almost playfully, patting Harry's hand before finally releasing it. Harry nodded his acceptance, trying to prepare himself to leave this warm sanctuary to return to his lonely dorm room.

Remus stood and waited as Harry retrieved his cloak so he might shepherd him to the door, but Harry hesitated, shuffling awkwardly. "Remus, would it be okay if...I mean, could I...?" Harry didn't know quite how to word his request, having never asked for a hug before. He'd never had anyone from whom he might request one. He glanced shyly to the floor, twisting the cloak in his hands and becoming very irritated at how often he seemed to blush in this man's presence.

But Remus seemed to intuit Harry's need. He stepped forward to wrap his ward in a firm embrace, and Harry relaxed into it with a sigh, enjoying the way Remus lay his cheek on the top of his head as Harry rested it against Remus' chest. While it was not the epic embrace they'd shared at Grimmauld Place, Harry felt it would sustain him at least until he saw Remus again. Reluctantly, they wished each other a goodnight, and then Harry donned his cloak for the lonely walk back to Gryffindor Tower.


	23. Cast Off Thy Nighted Colour

Despite his late night, Harry woke early the next morning. If waking is what you could call the half-conscious haze in which he drifted, much like the dust motes that floated lazily in the soft rays of morning light that fell through the gap in his bed hangings, warming his skin. Harry's demons seemed to have taken the night off, and the pleasant dream he'd been having chased him into wakefulness. Though the details evaporated quickly in the pale sunlight, it had left him with a lingering sense of serenity and well-being. And peculiarly, Harry noticed he was tingling. Not all of him, just his fingers. He groggily assumed it was from lack of circulation and rolled over, pulling his bedsheets over his head as if to re-envelope himself in his dream.

It had been exceedingly pleasant. The particulars, however, were proving coy, teasing him with snatches he couldn't quite place. Melting again into his mattress, Harry thought he recalled...sandy hair and...a giggle? No, it was deeper. A chuckle. Was that him? And there was also...

...the brush of lips against his. So it had been _that_ kind of dream. Harry smiled into his pillow. No wonder he'd liked it so well. But the more eagerly Harry tried to recall the identity of his seductress, the more elusive she became. Like some giggling nymph evading a pursuing satyr, the dream skirted just beyond his reach before escaping entirely. Harry finally accepted there would be no revelation and that, despite his best efforts (or perhaps because of them), he was now fully awake. The only thing keeping his complete disappointment at bay was the surprisingly realistic memory of that kiss, which remained even as the rest faded away. Harry sighed happily and, with a luxurious stretch, decided he may as well go ahead and get out of bed.

It was a decision he regretted almost instantly. The chill of the bare stones skittered from his heels to his shoulders, slicing through whatever remained of his cosy grogginess as if to punctuate the sharp difference between dreams and reality. Harry cursed softly as the last of his afterglow syphoned through his bare feet he padded to the end of his bed to his trunk. He rather felt that if his peace as to be so evanescent, it would have been better if it had not come at all. It made him even less enthusiastic about facing the coming day, and a part of him was wistful for the austere comfort of Snape's chambers where time hadn't existed and his only responsibility was to decide whether or not to remain conscious.

Gazing at the contents of his trunk, Harry realised that even the least of today's decisions would not be so simple. The sheer volume and variety of his new wardrobe meant he could not simply throw on whatever was least wrinkled, as usual. It was an unfamiliar inconvenience, and so he arranged the most hopeful prospects across his dishevelled mattress to get a good look at them, as Neville snored softly behind his bed curtains on the other side of the room.

Preoccupied as Harry was, he gave a kind of back-burner thought to the fact that Neville seemed to be the only one of his roommates to have survived the mass exodus of students earlier that week. Which suited Harry just fine. He enjoyed the increased privacy, and he'd always had a soft spot for Neville, who was so unobtrusive and non-judgemental. Not that he had anything against Dean and Seamus, but their empty beds did at least make Ron's less glaring. Except, of course, when he brought the fact to mind. Harry pointedly ignored all the furnishings, even the snoring ones, and concentrated on the alien task of colour coordination.

After careful deliberation (which may or may not have consisted of a round of 'eenie, meenie, miny, mo') he finally decided that his rusty coloured jumper looked best with the chocolate brown denim trousers which were fast becoming his favourites. He raked the rejects in a disorderly pile back into his trunk, and as he quickly slipped into the chosen items he caught, quite on accident in the oft-forgotten mirror in the corner, the sight of his own pale stomach disappearing beneath his jumper. Harry froze.

Curiously but self-consciously, Harry walked over to the mirror and studied his reflection, which seemed to be as surprised at being noticed as Harry was at noticing it. He was again struck by how much difference a proper set of clothes could make. The fact that they fit seemed to make him look taller than he remembered being, and the colours brought out the deep green of his eyes. Harry hardly recognised the young man looking back at him.

But that wasn't what he'd come to investigate.

After making sure Neville still slept soundly, Harry stepped closer to the mirror and lifted his shirt-front to examine his torso. He'd been wondering for a while just what there was about it that could elicit such a ravenous expression from his guardian. While he was flattered, it still puzzled him. He didn't think there was anything remarkable about him. Still, Remus wasn't the only one reacting differently to him lately. Though, Harry couldn't tell that anything that significant had changed.

But really, how was he to know? He'd never been a big fan of mirrors. He frankly disliked them if he were honest. It could have been that they always reminded him how poorly Dudley's hand-me-downs had fit, or how impossible his hair was to tame, or perhaps the way his often-broken glasses never quite set straight on his nose. But Harry wasn't that boy any longer, was he? He hadn't been for a while, and it seemed to him that his nagging reluctance to look at his own reflection had somehow gone deeper than all of that. Harry wondered on how he hadn't noticed the aversion until just now and only because it seemed not to exist anymore. What he was really noticing was its absence.

While he no longer felt compelled to look away from the sight of himself, Harry still couldn't see what all the fuss was about. He didn't look much different from a typical boy of his age. Not that he spent much time studying bloke's bellies. He turned to the side to get a better appraisal and had to admit there _might_ have been some pleasant definition to his chest and stomach. But nothing impressive. He hadn't been able to practice Quidditch in so long, he quite felt he was going soft around the edges.

Besides, whatever virtues were to be found in the pale expanse, Harry felt they were surely marred by the myriad scars scattered over its surface. He ran his free hand absently over his few ghostly reminders of mishaps past and found his reflection scowling at him. It seemed to wonder why he was so concerned and demanded to know what difference it made what Remus saw in him. Whatever it was, Harry knew he would never have to worry about him acting on it. Remus just wasn't that kind of man.

Harry let his shirt fall with an exasperated sigh, not allowing himself to think on why that fact frustrated him. Instead, he reached for his comb. Fat lot of good it did him, but he felt it important to at least go through the motions. Besides, the act was mindless enough it gave him an opportunity to mentally prepare himself for what he was about to do...which was collect Hermione for breakfast and then to survive the ordeal with everyone in attendance still intact. Harry disliked the odds, though he figured he couldn't just stop eating. It did occur to him that he could, in fact, take his meals in the kitchens. At least until someone noticed. But that seemed too cowardly, and he wouldn't give the bullies in the Great Hall the satisfaction. And there was Hermione to look after besides.

As Harry pulled on his trainers, he reflected that that wasn't as daunting a prospect as it had seemed the day before. His resentment of Hermione's dependence had cooled considerably since his late-night tea with Remus. Knowing his guardian was there to support him made it easier to support Hermione, allowed him to remember how much he cared about her. If he was honest, he was grateful for her forced smile, because it helped to dislodge the image he had of her writhing beneath Voldemort's wand, which still came unbidden occasionally whenever he closed his eyes. Her sing-song chatter was easier on his ears than the screams that still echoed through his daymares. No matter what the day brought, at least he could be assured that she was safe and whole, even if she wasn't exactly okay. That last part would be Harry's responsibility, one his reflection accepted with stoic resignation if not an abundance of enthusiasm. Harry squared his shoulders at the mirror, hoping to borrow some of his reflection's determination, and took a moment to force the scowl from his face before going to collect his friend.

Though it was still too early on a Sunday morning for most of the rest of Gryffindor Tower to be stirring, Harry stepped out of the stairwell to see Hermione's chestnut curls peeking over the high back of the common room sofa and sighed. He tried not to wonder how long she'd been there. He worked his features into what he hoped was a pleasant expression.

"'Morning, Hermione," he said, extending the greeting gently. He braced for the worst, but when she turned to him she was smiling, and while it was not as full or easy as it might once have been, it at least appeared genuine. The lost expression had not entirely left her eyes, nor the dark circles beneath, but they were not accompanied by the mad desperation from the day before. Harry released a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and smiled back.

"Good morning, Harry." 

"You're up a bit early," he observed.

"Well, so are you," she said defensively. Harry sighed inwardly and supposed he couldn't expect a complete transformation overnight. She instantly looked embarrassed, though, and, as if having to consciously remind herself who she was talking to, added much more gently, "I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't sleep well at all last night."

Harry nodded. He didn't need to ask why and didn't know how to respond without bringing up what they were both being so careful to avoid. "So. Are you ready to head down to breakfast?" he asked instead. She nodded, and Harry took several steps toward the portrait hole before looking over his shoulder to make sure she was following.

But she wasn't. In fact, she was still seated on the couch. A small smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth and she was staring...

Wait. Was she staring at his bum?

She was. And she continued to do so despite that it was clear that Harry had noticed. She gave him a quirky look and Harry blushed crimson, shuffling awkwardly to turn his backside resolutely out of view. This was...unexpected. Of all the scenarios he'd envisioned before coming downstairs, this hadn't been one of them. How very unlike Hermione. Which made Harry very uncomfortable.

Before he could work out what to say, Hermione asked, "Why did you bring that with you?" She nodded at his rear end, clearly amused. For a moment Harry simply blinked at her. He was rather of the understanding that his bum was attached. At least, he couldn't recall ever accidentally leaving it behind. He hadn't even started Apparation training. Harry reached back as if to ensure that his backside was, indeed, properly secured, and that's when his hand fell on the comb sticking halfway out of his pocket.

Relief washed over him. "Oh, this!" he said. Hermione gave him a look as if to ask what else she could possibly have been referring to, but Harry wasn't sure what to say. He'd pocketed the comb just in case, but Hermione was looking much more put together than the day before. Her hair had been carefully brushed and her uniform was neat. _And_ buttoned properly, despite his worst fears. She looked rather pretty, actually, and Harry didn't have the heart to tell her the truth: that he'd worried he'd have to make a morning ritual of making sure she was presentable before leaving the common room. He poked the offending item back into his pocket with a sheepish look, but Hermione just giggled (in such a girlish way he wondered if she wasn't feeling quite herself after all) and shook her head.

"Since when did you start caring so much about the state of your hair?" she asked, finally rising and collecting her things. Hermione always carried things. "You look nice enough in your sharp new clothes, you know. Besides," she added, giving him an appraising look. "The way it's always tousled makes you look rather...rakish."

Harry cocked a self-satisfied smile at that. Not only had he apparently successfully colour coordinated, he also looked rakish. He wasn't sure exactly what that implied, but by the shy way she had turned away while saying it, Harry supposed it to be a good thing.

"Um. Thanks?" he said. She grinned at him. Harry put on his best approximation of a rakish smile. "Shall we?" he asked, offering her his arm. Somewhere in the back of his mind he figured rakes were meant to be charming. Hermione laughed at his theatrics and played along.

" _Let's_ ," she said emphatically. But before accepting his arm, she bent to retrieve a large black umbrella at her feet that Harry had not previously noticed. Harry looked out the common room window at the unbroken expanse of blue sky beyond and his smile faltered.

"Um, Hermione? It's...not raining," he explained carefully, hoping not to offend.

"Of course. it isn't," she replied. "It's for breakfast." She said it so dismissively Harry became concerned. She looked better, but clearly something was still very off. He was wondering whether he should take her straight to the infirmary when she continued. "I _had_ thought of casting a simple shield spell, but then I figured, what the hell? Why not have a little fun?" she explained. And then Harry got it. He beamed at her.

"That's brilliant."

Hermione blushed. "Oh! And this is for you," she said as she juggled the umbrella to fish something out of her book bag. She produced a large book which she thrust in Harry's direction. "I'd remembered that you'd asked about it."

Harry accepted _The Vampire's Companion_ from her. "Excellent! I think I'm studying this with Remus later. Thanks." Her blush deepened and then finally, looking pleased with herself, she accepted Harry's arm.

They drew strange looks waltzing into the Great Hall arm-in-arm beneath an open umbrella, especially since the faux sky overhead was clear and blue. But the stunt helped to loosen the tension in the room considerably. Many of those who had whispered dissension the morning before slipped into smiles and giggles. Of course, it was probably just delight that their two least favourite classmates seemed to have officially gone off their head. But the joke wasn't lost on everyone, and it was nice to discover that not all the students remaining at Hogwarts were enemies. A couple of Ravenclaws grinned at them and gave them a thumbs up, then playfully pelted the taut canvas with grapes as they passed until Professor McGonagall tapped them smartly on the shoulder. Harry and Hermione paused, expecting as rebuke as well, but she simply gave their umbrella an appraising look and a smile that was gone so quickly it might have been mistaken for a facial tic.

"Mister Potter. Miss Granger," she greeted with a small nod and continued to the staff table.

After the grapes, there were no other edible showers. Apparently, if Harry and Hermione were going to have a sense of humour about what had happened the day before, picking on them just didn't seem like as much fun. They were allowed to pass their meal in peace. The umbrella was large and deep, creating an intimate space the two shared comfortably. Despite Snape's doubts, Dumbledore appeared to be right, as usual. They had a long way to go, but Harry and Hermione were indeed healing each other.

"I've got to meet Remus in the Defence Against the Dark Arts room for a lesson," Harry explained to Hermione, pushing back an empty plate. He couldn't remember the last time his belly had been full, or that he'd felt like filling it, and he was in an extremely tolerable mood. "Do you want to meet up with me there in a couple of hours?"

Hermione, on the other hand, had seemed preoccupied and was still absently picking at a slice of toast when Harry had spoken. "Oh," she said in a small voice, clearly crestfallen as she watched Harry attempt to extricate himself from the umbrella. "Okay."

The sharp contrast to her earlier mood made Harry feel like a heel for abandoning her, even though he didn't have a choice.

Well, he did though, didn't he? He'd been looking forward to spending the morning with Remus, just the two of them. But he knew what he should do, even if it was with reluctance.

"Listen. Perhaps you could come too this time. I don't think Remus would mind."

Hermione nodded immediately and quickly gathered up the S.P.E.W. fliers she'd been working on while Harry'd finished his breakfast. They left the Hall just as they had entered, ignoring the eruption of gossip that sprang up in their wake.


	24. Happy In That We Are Not Over-Happy

They found Remus bustling about the Defence Against the Dark Arts room, which looked strangely empty except for the few odds and ends that Remus seemed to be gathering up and stowing in a careworn satchel, looking all the world as if he were rushing off somewhere instead of settling in for a nice, lengthy lesson on part-humans with Harry. Which dampened Harry's spirits considerably. He wondered, crossly, what business was stealing Remus from him this time. But when Remus spied them waiting patiently at the threshold, he greeted them with a welcoming smile.

"Hermione! What a pleasant surprise," he exclaimed. He then raised an eyebrow at Harry upon seeing their linked arms. Harry subtly shook his head to express he'd explain later but could have sworn Remus winked at him before adding, "Will you be joining us, then?" to Hermione.

"Would it be alright, Remus?" Harry asked, at war with himself. Some small part of him almost hoped the answer would be no. He didn't like the idea of sharing Remus. Or Hermione, for that matter. It was as if his time with each of them was special but should somehow be kept separate, the one jealously guarded from the other. Harry knew he was being foolish and selfish, and so he was not really disappointed when Remus said that, of course, Hermione could join them.

"She might even be able to assist with the lesson," he added knowingly, relieving Harry of the recently acquired book he carried under one arm and stowing it in his satchel. "Actually, I'm glad you're both here. It saves us the trouble of having to fetch you, Hermione. I have a little treat for the two of you, courtesy of the Headmaster," he explained with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Who would like a bit of fresh air?"

Remus handed Harry what appeared to be a small picnic basket. "Hermione dear, would you mind carrying that blanket?" he asked, collecting his satchel.

Harry and Hermione exchanged an uncertain glance as she moved to comply. As nice as it sounded, Remus was meant to be keeping a low profile, and having a picnic-style study session in the Castle courtyard with the two most closely watched students at Hogwarts didn't exactly fit that bill. However, Harry's apprehension turned to confusion as Remus, looking back occasionally to see they weren't being followed, led them away from the Inner Castle and toward the heavily protected Outer Grounds. Harry knew the wards here were especially strict and wondered what Remus was playing at when he called them to a halt at the end of a corridor that led out toward the Lake.

"Just a moment, Harry. I've only the one," Remus said cryptically, stepping easily over the threshold and into the wide world beyond. Harry was surprised and somewhat concerned that their supposedly impenetrable defences appeared to have a deliberate gap. But his disapproval did not long withstand his excitement at the prospect of escaping what he was increasingly considering a kind of prison. Without minding Remus' instructions, Harry moved to follow him...only to bounce, with a resonant ' _thwong_ ' off what seemed to be a very sturdy wall of invisible gelatin.

Hermione was alarmed, but Remus just laughed at him in a good-natured sort of way as Harry stumbled gracelessly backwards, giving the unseen barrier a dirty look before extending a single finger to investigate it further.

"I told you to wait," Remus chided, still chuckling. "Here, catch this." From around his neck, Remus pulled a heavy paper card strung from a length of cord which he tossed lightly back through the archway. Harry plucked it from the air with the easy of a veteran Seeker and turned it in his hand to examine it.

"A Hall Pass?" Hermione wondered aloud over Harry's shoulder.

"Not just any Hall Pass. That is a key for the wards," Remus explained. "Some of us have to be able to come and go, but we can't very well lower the wards themselves or leave holes in them. Very hard to come by, that," he said, indicating the Pass the two teenagers still scrutinised. "And our little secret, by the way. But Dumbledore more than trusts the two of you to keep it, and he felt it might be good for you both to have a little time away from things. One at a time, now, Harry."

Harry slipped the string over his head and experimentally put his hand through the passageway. He met some resistance, but with a bit more pressure he felt the membrane of the wards give way and he veritably popped out on the other side. Harry took a deep, appreciative breath of crisp Autumn air. He hadn't realised the wards were so stifling they blocked even the Fall breeze. He grinned at Remus, who was obviously very pleased with Harry's reaction.

"I think the lady is waiting," Remus prompted. Harry quickly slipped off the Pass and tossed it to Hermione who joined them a moment later, looking equally chuffed. She returned the Pass to Remus. "Stay close to me, you two," he instructed as they set off in the direction of the Lake. "The wards on the grounds are formidable but not as secure as the ones on the Castle itself, and we can't take any chances. Or rather, we won't. We wouldn't want our privilege to be revoked now would we?" he asked, smiling in that just-so way that Harry loved and gesturing for them to follow. "By the way," he asked as they trudged across the grounds. "What's the umbrella for?" He nodded at the item, now closed and dangling from Hermione's elbow.

"Breakfast," they replied, sharing a delighted grin at their unintended unison. Clearly, the answer meant nothing to Remus. He refrained from asking any more questions, though he didn't quite manage to hide his own smile as he pushed on ahead of them.

They chose a spot beneath a large tree at the Lake's edge, well out of view from any unsuspecting passers-by in the castle corridors. "Now, Harry, have you had a chance to study this at all?" Remus inquired, tapping the cover of the book he had confiscated back in the classroom. Harry was helping Hermione smooth out their blanket and took a seat before answering.

He shook his head. "Hermione's only just given it to me."

"I'm sorry, Professor," she said, her nose scrunched contritely. "I should have known you would be studying vampires with Harry, and I know I wasn't meant to take things from the library, but it was just so fascinating I-"

Remus stopped her with an out-turned hand. "It's quite alright," he assured her. "I suspected as much, and we'll get on just fine without it today. Harry, you can look this over later," he said, returning it to him. "We can get on just fine without this Professor business, as well," he said, addressing Hermione as he rummaged through the basket Harry had deposited at the corner of their blanket to anchor it against the wind. "As I've told Harry, I'm merely a tutor now. Call me Remus," he requested, distributing cool bottles of something red and fizzy. Hermione accepted the drink but looked uncomfortable with the request.

"How about 'Mr. Lupin'?" she offered.

"Gods, no!" Remus laughed. "Mr. Lupin is my father. Really, just Remus. Please," he insisted, allowing for no further objections. "Now, Harry. What do you know about vampires?"

Harry had stretched himself out on the blanket and had been so enjoying the view he had almost forgotten there was to be a lesson. He propped himself up on his elbows and furrowed his brow. He was embarrassed to realise he'd forgotten almost everything from the essay he'd written, which Remus himself had assigned them Third Year, and all he could seem to bring to mind were cheesy black and white Muggle horror movies. Besides, it was so hard to think while such a pleasant breeze whispered through the leaves overhead.

"Um. They're afraid of crosses?" he offered, knowing he was way off the mark. Remus groaned and Hermione made a little 'tsk' sound and shook her head at him. All Harry could do was shrug apologetically.

"Not quite," Remus said, seeming to decide the answer was so bad it called for a tin of biscuits which he fished from the basket. "Try again."

Harry took a thoughtful sip of his soda. "They drink blood," Harry said more confidently, wondering as he rolled the fruity drink across his tongue what blood tastes like to a vampire. It didn't sound too palatable to Harry.

"Better," Remus said, sounding unimpressed.

"They burst into flames in sunlight?" he ventured. Harry was quite grateful at that moment that he wasn't a vampire, as he was thoroughly enjoying the feel of it on his face. He also rather liked the way it fell through the branches above to dapple Remus' tawny hair with patches of gold. It brought out the amber of his eyes. Remus, oblivious to the aesthetic display dancing across his own head, made a gesture indicating Harry was partially correct.

"Forget Muggle myths," he said, planting himself on the blanket in front of Harry and helping himself to a biscuit. This, however, seemed to be more a prop for talking with than it was for eating. "They are mostly misconceptions, as it is with most things in Our world. Let me ask you this though, Harry," he said, wagging the cookie at him. "Do you think vampires are human?"

Harry was surprised by the question, so much so that he finally sat up and gave Remus' lesson his full attention. "Well, no. I mean, they used to be, right? Now they are like...undead or something."

Remus looked ever so slightly disappointed by his answer and Harry felt bad without quite knowing why. "If you carry away nothing else from this lesson, Harry, I want it to be this," Remus said soberly. "Vampires are people. They may have been magically altered, but they _are_ human. As human as, say, a werewolf. In fact, an infusion of vampiric blood is rather similar to the effects of a wolf bite. Very different characteristics, of course, but the concept is essentially the same." The sudden gravity of the conversation finally succeeded in pulling Harry's head from the clouds, and he nodded his understanding. Remus returned the nod appreciatively before continuing in a much lighter tone. "Vampires are vastly misunderstood, Harry," he said, leaning candidly in Harry's direction, "even by most of the Wizarding world. I might venture to say they are even more misunderstood than werewolves because they are so solitary and secretive. Werewolves are, by nature, rather social creatures. It's a canine trait," he said with a wry smile. "We are far more easily found, if not so readily identified.

"Vampires, on the other hand, are inherent loners. They shy away from most Wizarding communities and are almost never found among Muggles. There are the occasional exceptions, of course. And in those rare, remote places of the world where they can do so safely, they will sometimes come together under the leadership of a considerably older, stronger member of their own kind. In fact, there is a surprisingly large coven in Romania at the moment.

"That's not to say they can't be found outside of Eastern Europe. In fact, you'll likely spot one in a pub in Knockturn Alley. But you can almost bet they will be passing through, not just in having the usual."

"Excuse me, Professor. I mean, Mister-" Hermione sputtered, becoming exasperated with herself. "... _Remus_ ," she finally forced out with an embarrassed blush. Old habits die hard. Harry felt rather bad that he had almost forgotten she was there. He seemed not to be the only one. As he spoke, Remus had come to be sitting so close to Harry that their knees brushed. Apparently disconcerted by this realisation, Remus stood under the pretence of retrieving a soda for himself from the basket.

"Yes, Hermione. I'm sorry," he said, slightly flustered. "You had a question?"

Something unreadable flashed across Hermione's expression, but she quickly shifted into her typical interrogation mode. "Sir, if vampires are human, why does the Ministry classify them as Class One Non-Humans?"

Remus gave her a joyless smile and began to pace. "For much the same reasons werewolves are restricted from certain employment and discouraged from 'mating'," he sighed. "The same reasons House Elves are enslaved and Centaurs restricted to reserved lands. And, I imagine, the same reasons the Muggle world saw things like Apartheid, Jim Crow, and the Holocaust. There is a lot to do with politics and prevailing prejudices, with the enjoyment some derive from having power over others. But mostly it boils down to fear. Fear of the 'other'. Fear of what any establishment sees as a threat to the privileges it affords itself. The Ministry has no real desire to understand their magically afflicted or part-human brethren any further than the knowledge necessary to control them. But I seem to have digressed a bit," Remus said, making an obvious effort to remove the bitterness from his voice. Having had a sympathetic audience, perhaps he'd taken more liberty than intended. Harry, however, could have talked with him in this vein all day. It was really more Hermione's area of expertise. (And Harry could see her seething from the corner of his eye.) But anything important to Remus was important to Harry, and he felt his guardian's frustration as keenly as if it were his own.

Remus took a deep breath and forced a smile. "As a more direct answer to your question, Hermione, there seems to be a willful culture of misinformation. Lack of interest on the Ministry's part, and a lack of cooperation on the vampires', has resulted in the Ministry's opportunity to label vampires whatever they deem most convenient. You see, vampirism places severe limitations on one's ability to function in normal society. Having little motivation to correct these types of misunderstandings, the Ministry finds itself unfamiliar with those of us who exist on the fringes. And even when it tries to remedy that, a justifiable lack of trust often makes the effort unwelcome with those people anyway." Hermione seemed on the verge of a truly scathing commentary on the injustices Remus had just mentioned, but he headed her off. "But I hadn't intended to turn this into an Anti-Ministry rally of three. There are good people working for the Ministry. Many of them. It's just that this kind of progress is often slow. I'm sure your generation will succeed in making great strides in the area. But back to the lesson at hand, eh?"

Hermione nodded, tight-lipped and angry but compliant, as Remus steered the conversation to safer waters.

"Speaking of the limitations of vampirism, you were partially correct, Harry," Remus went on, drawing Harry from his own simmering disquiet as he tried to remember what he'd been right about. "Vampires are very sensitive to sunlight. But they aren't combustible," he smiled. "The sun alone will rarely kill a vampire, it will simply give them a horrendous sunburn, as it were. Being primarily nocturnal, they are sensitive to most light, but particularly to the sun. Their eyesight is especially keen, and any sudden or uncustomary brightness can be painful for them. Now," he said in playful challenge. "What else do you think you know?"

Harry, however, was growing weary of this quiz. When they had set off from the castle, he thought they would have a casual outing and enjoy the scenery. The subject at hand seemed too heavy for the setting. "They are immortal?" he said without enthusiasm.

"Now if that were the case, there would be a great deal more of them, I can assure you. And I suppose Voldemort would not have bothered with Dark Magic. Vampires are very mortal. But they _are_ capable of living much longer than most humans. Hermione, why don't you explain to Harry how a vampire can prolong its life?"

Hermione took her question-answering pose. "Yes... _Remus_." The effort cost her, but she finally managed the right address. Remus stifled a laugh and urged her to continue. "They drink blood," she explained to Remus, who smiled and pointed at Harry. She turned timidly toward Harry to explain directly.

"A vampire prolongs his or her life by feeding on a victim's life-force. Blood simply acts as the most efficient carrier, being the most saturated with Vital Energy. A vampire need not necessarily feed from humans but should take fresh blood from a living or recently living organism on a fairly regular basis. Though, humans are preferred. It isn't a direct exchange year for year, however vampires generally prefer young blood, in which the life-force is stronger. But not a child's blood, in which it is not yet mature."

"Morbid as it sounds," Remus interjected. "Certain vampires refer to people as if to fine wines. We reach our 'peak' between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five."

"If taken in large quantities," Hermione continued at Remus' prompting. "Blood can heal or revitalise a vampire. Taken regularly, it can actually stop the biological clock, so to speak."

" _If_ a vampire chooses to do so," Remus said, again taking the reins. "Though most will not. As I've said, vampires are humans, and very few are vampires by choice. Becoming infected does not destroy any of their human scruples. While there is a bad crowd in any community, a vampire is really no more likely to kill as the next person unless they are forced into a situation in which they have no choice. Really, unless a vampire is starving, they will not attack unprovoked. And while they do not tolerate typical foods like we do, much to their chagrin, they _can_ live relatively comfortably on a diet of animal flesh, provided it is raw and very fresh. But," he conceded, "vampires are a slave to their condition. Ideally, they can and are intended to live on human blood alone. And theoretically, they could survive indefinitely if the supply supported it. But this type of vampire is exceedingly rare. Even if a vampire endeavoured it, it would be very difficult to achieve immortality. Most simply want to live a normal life.

"And there has actually been a potion developed over the last century or so that could allow them to do just that. Over time, the Substisanguinus potion allows infected persons to walk in broad daylight largely unaffected with reasonable coverage, to eat more regular foods, and most importantly, it almost completely suppresses their craving for human blood."

"Well, that's great, then," Harry said brightly, wondering why Remus didn't seem to agree. "So why do they have such a hard time functioning in society?"

"Because like Wolfsbane, it's a luxury most simply cannot afford," Remus explained sadly. "The potion is complex, delicate, and the ingredients are rare and expensive. Unless they are wealthy--and it's difficult for most to find gainful employment-–or unless they know an expert Potions Master with vast resources at their disposal, the potion is simply out of the question."

"How terrible," Hermione said now, obviously piqued. "The Ministry should be administering this potion to vampires instead of marginalising them."

"Like they dole out Wolfsbane to werewolves instead of forbidding them to work?" Harry offered.

"Exactly! It's almost like denying medicine to the ill. What kind of government lets its citizens suffer like that?" she fumed.

Remus appeared grateful to them for the sentiments but raised a hand for peace. "Ah. But it is far easier, and cheaper, to simply quarantine us than it is to cure us. Or rather our symptoms. And if we are considered less than human, can we really be considered citizens? But thank you very much for saying so, Hermione. I, naturally, agree."

Harry tucked his knees under his chin and reflected on how awful it must be to be considered less than human. To be ostracised, to struggle for a living. Vampires couldn't even enjoy the delicious sunshine that was currently browning Harry's skin or savour a plate of juicy sausages. Well, cooked ones at any rate. But to know that something existed that could make you 'normal' and for it to be unobtainable...that's what must really be horrible. And Harry was very glad Remus had Snape to prepare his Wolfsbane. But for how much longer?

"Do vampires do any of those cool things you see in films?" Harry asked on impulse, hoping there was any upside at all to being infected. "Like, can they change into bats and things?"

"Vampires do not have the inherent ability to change shape, no. A Muggle can be as easily infected as a Witch or Wizard. Curiously though, if you do find one that is an animagus, their form is frequently a bat. And their Patronuses often are, as well."

Remus gave Harry a thoughtful look. "I don't want you thinking that all vampires are harmless victims, though, Harry," he warned. "A vampire is a very dangerous enemy to make. They can be killed in much the same manner as you or I, but they are far stronger and faster, even when their symptoms are dulled by Substisanguinus. The Ministry does not perceive them as a threat for nothing. If you encounter a hostile vampire at night, especially during a Dark Moon, your chances of survival are slim at best. They can see perfectly in the dark. Should they give themselves over to their instincts, they are almost unstoppable. A vampire anticipating battle will often starve itself beforehand to sharpen the effect. Nothing matches a hungry vampire when it comes to bloodthirsty carnage."

Harry swallowed involuntarily, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn't sure if he was just imagining it, but the pleasant breeze from earlier now seemed to have a sharp Autumn nip, and he shivered. His image of cuddly, misunderstood vampires had been given a rougher, more realistic dimension. He didn't fancy meeting a vampire in the dark and made a mental note to avoid Romania. But surely this was a distant threat, just a matter of thorough coursework. He said as much to Remus, but his hope was short-lived.

"Actually, there is a reason we're studying vampires just now, Harry," he confessed. Harry and Hermione shared an ominous look. "The Order has received reports that Voldemort intends to send emissaries to Eastern Europe."

"The Romanian Coven," Hermione gasped. Remus nodded.

"An alliance between Voldemort and the Coven could prove disastrous. We've sent our own envoy in hopes of reaching them first, but dealing with vampires is complicated. Far more complicated than our attempt to recruit the giants last year. Giants are, no offence to our dear friend Hagrid, less intelligent. They are also more volatile. They don't understand our conflict, and while Voldemort might have succeeded in persuading them into his service, he will have a hard time controlling them. Which, we suspect, he's realised, hence his effort to sway the Coven. While vampires seldom meddle in the politics of the Wizarding world, it's safe to say they are unsatisfied with the status quo. As you pointed out, Hermione, they are even labelled as non-humans. And because of that, until quite recently, vampire hunting was actually sanctioned by the Ministry. Once upon a time, they worked closely, though anonymously, with the Vatican in an attempt to drive vampires to extinction. Vampires have a very good reason to hold a grudge against both Wizard and Muggle-kind. And if Voldemort manages to convince them he offers real, positive social advancement for their people in exchange for their assistance, we may be in very serious trouble."

"Do you think it likely he'll succeed?" Hermione asked, sounding as if she was afraid of the answer.

"We know he's tried before. But they were...less than receptive then. And at the time his position was much more secure than it is now. But we cannot ignore the possibility."

Harry was quiet while Remus and Hermione discussed their predicament. Something had been gnawing at him since Remus mentioned the giants, and he suddenly realised what it was. "Hagrid," he said, almost to himself. "You said I was to meet with Hagrid today but he's away unexpectedly. _He's_ gone to Romania, hasn't he? He's the envoy."

Remus' silence answered for him.

"But why Hagrid?" Hermione demanded, clearly very worried. "I mean, I can understand why he and Madam Maxine had been selected to approach the giants, but it doesn't make sense to send him to talk with vampires, surely. His spellwork isn't even very good!" she said accusingly, as if Remus personally had sent their friend on an apparent suicide mission.

"But Maxine's is," Remus explained calmly. "Besides, with vampires, spellwork isn't much of a defence anyway. They are far too fast to target. In the time it would take to cast, they would already be at your throat. But Hagrid's size and strength give him an advantage there others would not have. Hagrid volunteered to go," Remus stressed. "Still, it was not something the Headmaster agreed to readily. The situation is far from ideal. Believe me, we share your concerns. There wasn't much choice, though. We _must_ reach the Coven before the Death Eaters."

Neither Harry nor Hermione seemed placated in the least. Harry shifted uncomfortably, worrying the hem of his sleeve as he stewed. He disliked the dark turn their sunny lesson had taken. " _So_ ," he said tersely. "What does this mean, exactly? Voldemort might send a vampire assassin after me?"

"Harry, you must know we are doing everything we can to-"

"Tell me how to protect myself, then," Harry interrupted, trying to will the desperation from his voice. He finally met Remus' eye. "What should I do if I meet a vampire, Remus?" The werewolf looked at him solemnly for a long moment before answering.

"Pray."


	25. I Am But Mad North-Northwest; When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw

The sombre mood that descended on their picnic after that never really lifted, and Remus finally called the lesson to a close, sending them off with some books for Harry to peruse before next time. Harry didn't much see the point, but Hermione stowed them in her pack for him anyway. As they headed back to the dormitory, Hermione again took his arm. He'd continued to offer it, as she seemed to draw more support from it than the obvious physical kind. Harry felt he needed something to cling to as well, and Hermione helped ground him. Though, he couldn't help but notice a slight new tenacity in her grip.

"It's okay," he assured her. "I probably won't even meet any vampires. At least, none intent on killing me. Remus just wants me to be prepared, is all."

"Hm? Oh, I know," she said distractedly. "It isn't that. I only..." She seemed to decide the thought was better left unvoiced. "I'm fine," was all she finally added.

Harry, however, wasn't as confident in his statement as he'd wanted Hermione to believe. There had been something urgent about Remus' lesson, as though he had wanted Harry to know how close this particular threat was without freaking him out completely. Harry had the feeling he was already a very sought after 'vintage'. He was so preoccupied with these thoughts, he almost failed to notice Draco Malfoy leaning sulkily against the wall ahead of them until they were practically on top of him. As they approached, Draco pushed himself off the wall as though he'd been waiting for them.

Harry wasn't in the mood. He stiffened, ready for conflict. Hermione gave his arm a warning squeeze and attempted to pull them past the boy, but Harry would have none of it. If Malfoy was looking for trouble, Harry was inclined to give it to him.

But Malfoy looked anything but hostile. Though he did sneer at the sight of their linked arms, it was weak and habitual. Really, Draco looked like Hell. "Granger," he said with a barely perceptible nod, as though someone held him at wandpoint and warned him to be civil. He did not acknowledge Harry at all.

"Malfoy," Hermione returned, just as stiffly. Harry was so surprised that the two were on speaking terms, however terse, that he didn't interject. After an awkward silence, during which Hermione seemed to be waiting patiently for...Merlin knows what, and Draco toed the ground irritably, Harry finally decided he'd had as much as he could stomach.

"Sod off, Malfoy," he spat, veritably dragging Hermione with him as he left the boy behind. She seemed somehow reluctant and sad, but she allowed Harry to lead her away.

"I'm sorry!" Malfoy blurted at their backs. Harry's jaw dropped and he turned to Draco, stunned. "I...I only wanted to say it, is all," he added, more belligerent than remorseful Harry thought, before turning to flee in the opposite direction.

"What was  _that_  about?" Harry wondered aloud after Draco had disappeared around a distant corner. Hermione looked conflicted. She took Harry's arm and began walking again before answering.

"You missed it, Harry," she began finally. "It was...bad...after the Accident." That's how she'd been referring to it. 'The Accident'. "They took me to the infirmary. But it was so chaotic, and I was just so..." For the first time in her life, Hermione seemed unsure how to articulate something. "I just wanted to go somewhere quiet. So after they gave me a bandage for my forehead, I left for Gryffindor Tower."

This must have been what Snape had been referring to when he said Dumbledore had lost her. They had probably gone to collect her to the Headmaster's office after she'd had time to be attended to, but in all the commotion she'd simply walked off to find some peace. This was presumably while Harry was busy blowing things up and chatting with the monster who murdered their friend. And though Harry knew most of that was beyond his control, he still felt guilty that Hermione had been left to face that horrible time alone.

"I don't really know what possessed me," she confided, "but on the way to the dormitory, I came across Draco and...Well, there were these two girls from his House. They had him cornered and they were making fun of him because it looked like he'd been crying. They were saying such cruel things, Harry, about his parents' divorce and Lucius being sent to Azkaban. I think it just made me so angry because they were meant to be his friends. And at a time like that, when so many bad things were happening. I tried to ignore them, I really did. But I just couldn't. I may have told them off. A bit."

"You what?" Harry said, so surprised that he forgot to keep walking. Hermione dropped his arm to hug herself, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, I was emotional and confused," she said defensively, as if coming to someone's aid was something to be ashamed of. "It all just seemed so unfair, him being all alone...like I was," she added in a small voice. "But the girls weren't even bothered. They just laughed at me. And at him. Apparently, I had only made things worse. And Draco got so angry at me, he said...he said 'F-off, will you'," she whispered, undoubtedly censoring the exchange. "I don't need help from some filthy Mudblood."

Harry was livid. If he'd known about the insult while the git was still within striking distance, Draco's perfect, well-bred nose would not now be so straight. Harry'd have knocked the point right off it. He made a mental note to do so as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

"It's really not a big deal," Hermione placated. "I wasn't even offended. It only made me sad for him," she shrugged. "I simply walked off and went to bed."

Harry's murderous impulse warred for attention with his grudging respect for his friend who, even at a time of such devastating personal loss, was able to set aside years of antagonism and stand up against a perceived injustice. She was a far better person than Harry was. He certainly would not have been so charitable. "You know, you aren't alone anymore," he told her quietly, taking one of her hands in his. She gave Harry's fingers a grateful squeeze, but her smile was evanescent.

Despite the unease brought about by their encounter with Malfoy and Remus' lesson, the rest of the day passed much more comfortably than the one before. At least Hermione seemed restored to herself. A melancholy version, but herself nonetheless. They spent most of their time making up Harry's homework and carefully avoiding mention of absent friends and recent events in general. Harry wondered if Hermione felt the same subtle guilt he did at finding it so easy to function at all so soon after 'the Accident'. Harry realised with a pang that he didn't even know what had happened to Ron. He knew he hadn't 'died', not in a traditional sense, and he tried very hard not to imagine Mrs. Weasley tending to his soulless shell. Surely they would not allow... _it_...to be sustained. But did they let the body wither on its own, or did they humanely stop his heart? Or did they bury him, still breathing, in the family plot?

The morbidity of these thoughts threatened to make Harry physically ill, and he shoved them aside. It didn't matter, he told himself. Ron was gone. That was it. And though he didn't try to run from it anymore, Harry's grief found him at odd times. Like as he was finishing his Transfiguration essay and couldn't understand why his ink kept running, only to realise he'd been crying on his parchment. To her credit, Hermione always pretended not to notice as Harry discreetly wiped his cheek on his sleeve.

Harry visited Remus again that night. His guardian appeared to have been expecting him, as the tea had been ready to pour when Harry arrived. Harry slept soundly that night and woke the next morning all that more confident that Remus was right. Harry was strong enough to make it through this. His life hadn't ended with Ron's.

Harry and Hermione dispensed with the umbrella on Monday. Harry was almost sad to see it go but honestly had begun to feel a bit silly. Hermione, however, continued to reach for his arm. There were whispers in the halls, but Harry didn't care. There would always be whispers. At least this time he was choosing what they were whispering about. They were on their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts that afternoon when Hermione unexpectedly tugged him toward the dungeons.

"Where are we going? I thought DADA was next period."

"Haven't you heard?" she asked as though she wished she hadn't. "Cobblesn-...I mean, Cobble _shot_  has moved it to a different classroom."

"What? Why?"

"Oh, who knows," she muttered crossly. "She certainly seems like close friends with Snape. Maybe she has a crush. We haven't had Defence Against the Dark Arts yet. Perhaps she'll enlighten us." Though, she hardly seemed to be holding her breath.

They were among the last to arrive and met the rest of their classmates outside their new room. They drew their share of dirty or curious looks, but most of the group was too busy buzzing about their new professor and change of venue to pay Harry and Hermione much attention.

"What do you suppose she'll teach us?"

"She couldn't possibly be as vile as that Umbridge woman."

"Oh my gods, have you  _seen_  the state of her hair? Don't they sell moisturising potion where she's from?"

Typical speculation, really. Though, no one seemed to want to be the first inside, not even Hermione, which Harry reckoned had to be a first. Eventually though, as the official start of class drew closer, the crowd began to file inside with Harry and Hermione bringing up the rear. Even from outside, Harry could tell that it was unusually dark in the classroom, even for the dungeons. The room seemed to be lit with only a handful of low-burning candles levitated around the perimeter.

Harry had barely crossed the threshold, his eyes still struggling to adjust to the change in illumination, when there was a sudden burst of blinding light. A forceful spell exploded against the back wall of the room, directly above the group of students in front of him. The classroom erupted into screams and curses. In an instant, Harry had drawn his wand and ploughed his way to the head of the gathering, searching for the assailant. But all he found when he got there was Professor Cobbleshot, sitting cross-legged atop her desk, looking almost bored. 

When they finally realised they weren't really under attack, the rest of the class quieted and turned to watch whatever seemed to be unfolding at the front of the room. Professor Cobbleshot studied Harry in that strange, blank way of hers and then, to Harry's surprise, she began to slowly applaud. Harry's heart was still hammering in his chest and he was beyond annoyed.

"Ten points to Gryffindor," she announced quietly. Harry wondered if she was even capable of raising her voice. Or of expressing anything other than mild apathy. She stowed her wand, but Harry was still hesitant to lower his own. He was beginning to understand Hermione's animosity. The rest of the class muttered as well, casting both Cobbleshot and Harry strange looks as they brushed the smouldering ash from their hair, which was still drifting through the room from the parchment poster destroyed by the blast. "Take a seat," Cobbleshot instructed, still so quietly they had to strain to catch it. Harry and Hermione claimed the two seats very furthest from the front, and so furthest from the odd woman they both had reason to dislike, and no one bothered to fight them for them.

"There are what? Close to twenty of you here?" Cobbleshot observed when everyone was settled. "And the only one of you with enough presence of mind to draw their wand was Mr. Potter." Harry sank lower in his seat to avoid the sudden attention cast his way. He was almost embarrassed, having acted on an instinct no one else present had had any cause to develop. "What that tells me," she went on, "is that you have learned precious little in this class save complacency." Cobbleshot waved her hand and the candles along the walls shone a little brighter, causing everyone to flinch as if expecting another spell. But it seemed Cobbleshot simply wanted a better look at her students. Or else she was allowing them to see her better.

She was Umbridge's antithesis. She was thin and pale, decked in black from head to toe; not in traditional robes but in a Muggle-looking shirt and trousers that appeared sturdy and well-worn. She also apparently was little concerned with Magical Theory. In fact, as several of the students began to pull out their textbooks and quills, she tapped the top of the desk she was seated on with one of her longish nails to call their attention.

"No books today," she announced. "You've proved to me you aren't ready for them. No quills and no parchment." Rather grudgingly, Hermione returned her things to her bag, eyeing the professor suspiciously. Harry knew that look and knew she was contemplating more than just Cobbleshot's prohibition on parchment. "Your first lesson here will be on instinct. Tell me," she addressed an unfortunate Ravenclaw in the front row. "Do you expect me to teach you spells?"

The girl shifted uncomfortably under Cobbleshot's scrutiny. "Well. Naturally," she said in a small, hesitant voice.

"Naturally," Cobbleshot repeated in a way that made it impossible to tell what she thought of the answer. She continued to stare at her until the girl became so uncomfortable she looked away. "And why," she said then, addressing the rest of the class, "do spells work?" When it was clear no one was going to volunteer an answer she continued. "Is it the motion of the wrist?" she hypothesised, pantomiming. "Or perhaps the pronunciation of the words?"

"Of course," Hermione said, unable to hold her tongue any longer. Harry could hear the challenge in her voice even if he could not have read it on her face. "Everyone knows that without both being done properly, a spell will not succeed. It's the first thing they taught us as First Years."

"Is it indeed? But what if I told you those are merely crutches? Training wheels for novices? When I brought up the lights, did you hear an incantation? Had I even drawn my wand?" Hermione clearly resented the implication that her extensive knowledge was an elaborate indication of some weakness, but she bit her tongue. "A spell works because it triggers an innate ability within all of us," Cobbleshot explained. "No matter how impressive the wand, no matter how perfectly delivered the incantation, a Muggle could no more Levitate a feather than could a chimp. But we...we are  _special,_ " she said looking at them each in turn. Her words disturbed Harry, and when she met his eyes, he shuddered. "How many of you performed spontaneous magic before you were even toilet-trained? Before you could even say the word Incendio, how many inadvertently set fire to the draperies?" From the sheepish looks she got, apparently several of them. Or if not the draperies, then perhaps the rug or bedsheets. "Incantations are tools," she said firmly. "They allow us to tap a very specific aspect of the raw, primal power within us. The words access it and the wand channels and magnifies it. Yet, as children we simply had to will a thing strongly enough and, 'poof', it happened."

Harry thought about his own experiences with accidental magic. Growing his hair overnight. Vanishing glass. Leaping to the school roof to escape Dudley's gang. Cobbleshot might be off-putting, but despite himself, he found what she was implying intriguing.

"As we grow older, our minds become more structured. We're taught rules. We're taught self-control. We're  _told_  how the world works and how to function in it. These structures act like walls, restricting our access to that which once flowed free and untamed in our youth. In some ways, this is a good thing. Much safer for those around us, to be sure. But at the same time, it limits us. And having reached an age where we can use our gifts responsibly, we find we are unable to do so without the aid of wands and words. But when one is faced with a more skilled, more _powerful_ opponent, the fraction of a second that it takes to swish and flick, to mutter a string of syllables, could very well cost us our lives. Against what awaits us out there, beyond our wards, directed with malice in ever increasing magnitude by a Dark genius...that time is a luxury we cannot afford."

Everyone in the room, Hermione included, was captivated by this speech. Cobbleshot's words, lilting in a subtle accent Harry couldn't quite place, had veritably enchanted the entire class. And despite himself, Harry was just as rapt.

"And so, the first lesson I will teach you is on instinct. We will map the labyrinth you've constructed around your potential so that you can access that raw power without thought, without doubt, without hesitation. You will still speak the words, still wave your wand, but when we're done here, it will be an action simultaneous to the casting, not the catalyst of it. There is a spell written on the chalkboard," she informed them. Harry hadn't noticed it until she had pointed it out and wasn't sure it had been there before she had spoken. "Memorise it. Write it down later to contemplate the shape of it if you like, but do  _not_ ," she said with a knowing look to Hermione, "look it up. And do not cast it. Your homework is to become acquainted with this spell. Let  _it_  tell you what it does. Stare at it. Repeat it in your mind. Whisper it aloud and taste the sound of it on your tongue. Slowly, it will reveal itself to you. Write down all it tells you. As you begin to know it better, it will show you what colour it is, what shape, what sound, what smell. Record all your impressions--you'll be turning them into me later--but do not share them with your classmates. There is to be no discussion between you. Trust me. I'll know. And when next we meet here, you will cast this spell for me, and we shall see what it has taught you. Class dismissed."

The instructions had been so detailed and intense, and the dismissal so abrupt and unexpected, that for a moment no one moved. Cobbleshot's spell had been so potent that it took them a moment to wake back to the mundane world around them. And quite beside that, it was still ages until next period. Finally, without a word despite the fortune of an early dismissal, the class gathered their things and filed back out of the room. Cobbleshot sat on her desk and she watched them go, looking as though she were absolutely bored to death.

 


	26. Like Sweet Bells Jangled, Out of Tune and Harsh

"Wizards are special? Comparing Muggles to chimps?" Hermione fumed none-too-quietly as they left the classroom. "Is she certain she didn't mean to report to Durmstrang at start of term?"

"It bothered me, too," Harry admitted more softly. "But aren't you even a _bit_ curious about all the rest? I mean, what did you think the first time you did accidental magic? I thought I was losing my mind. But it _had_ been effortless. In fact, I think it would have been harder to stop it. When did we stop...being able to...Hermione?" he trailed off, noticing the discomfort in her expression. She bit her lip and hugged her books to her. "Wait. Hermione, you _have_ done accidental magic before, haven't you?"

"Not everyone has, you know," she said defensively. "There are plenty of Muggle-borns who had no idea magic existed until they got their letters." She meant to look matter-of-fact, but it came across as pouty.

So that was it. Maybe Hermione's anger, or at least part of it, was misplaced. She worked so hard to prove she was just as much a Witch as the next person, despite being Muggle-born. Perhaps she felt frustrated at having missed out on such a common experience. Having been raised by Muggles himself, Harry had shared her insecurities once.

But if anyone would have skipped the magical hiccups, Harry believed it would have been Hermione. She was the most structured person Harry knew, no doubt putting up those walls Cobbleshot had mentioned before she could crawl. It didn't help matters that Cobbleshot's style of teaching flew in the face of everything Hermione excelled at. If Harry were her, he might be uncomfortable, too. He was just about to (perhaps unwisely) broach some of these points with Hermione when he spied Professor Snape approaching them from the opposite direction. The man didn't acknowledge their presence, though Harry had no doubt he was keenly aware of them both. Harry couldn't help but be almost physically affected by Snape's and was frustrated by the lack of recognition. A part of him wished the man would make eye contact or nod or...anything. Sneer? Curse at them?Regardless of whether he would return the favour, Harry noticed Snape. He noticed, as well, that he seemed to be discreetly carrying something. Glass peeked from either end of his closed fingers. Harry craned his head as they passed, trying to get a better look.

"What do you think this spell is all about, anyway?" Hermione asked, oblivious to the mystery of Snape's fist. Harry reluctantly pulled his attention away from the retreating Potions Master. He shook his head.

"We aren't supposed to talk about it, remember? Against the rules." Harry, for one, was rather excited about the experiment and didn't want to skew the results.

"Oh, bother the rules!" Hermione sputtered. She did not notice for several steps that Harry was no longer beside her. When she did notice, she turned back to him irritably. " _What_?"

Harry squinted at her. "Okay. Who are you and what have you done with Hermione?" Hermione rolled her eyes at him before turning with a huff to continue her way to the Great Hall. Harry, grinning, jogged to catch back up.

"Hello, Harry. Hermione," Luna greeted them as soon as they had taken their seats, plates full of sandwiches materialising in front of them. "Quibbler?"

"Er. Sure. Thanks, Luna," Harry said, reluctantly accepting one. He passed it to Hermione, who set it down as though it might be mildly infectious though still managed to smile politely at Luna.

"No charge," Luna added. "It's father's idea. He loved the response we had last year. He thinks the student body should have a source of reliable news to balance the Ministry propaganda in the Daily Prophet. We must avoid indoctrination," she explained. "By the way, if you have any contributions, I've set up a box outside Ravenclaw common room. All anonymous, of course," she assured them in a whisper.

"Okay. We'll...keep it in mind," Harry promised. Luna smiled gratefully at him.

"So far, we've mostly received rude jokes. But you know how it goes..." Luna always left her sentences hanging in a way that Harry could never tell right away if she was finished speaking. Or decide how he should respond. Or work out if he was even expected to. Which this time, apparently, he wasn't. "Well, enjoy. Quibbler?" she asked the students next to them, making her way down the rest of the table. Harry watched her for a moment before looking down at his and Hermione's copy.

**Dearg-Due Spotted in Eastern Coast Irish Fishing Village.**

Eyewitness accounts on pg.3

"That's sad. Perhaps we can invent something halfway interesting later to try and make up for the rude stuff," Harry proposed. But Hermione wasn't listening. Harry followed her line of sight and found she was watching as Luna forced a copy of the Quibbler on Draco, who accepted it with surprisingly little hostility. Luna moved on but Hermione's gaze didn't. Harry blew out a sigh.

"Hermione. Just forget him. He doesn't deserve your pity."

"I don't pity-"

"He's lucky I don't walk over there and hex the pants off him," Harry muttered. Recalling Draco's insult to Hermione made him pissed off about it all over again. "Look, so he's all by his ickle self. Big deal. Serves him right. It's not like _he_ cared about _you_ being by yourself all that time, right?" Hermione's expression hardened, but she still stared. Which irritated the living daylights out of Harry.

"Well," she began hesitantly. "He may have. Actually, Cobbleshot tried to kind of...force us on one another."

"Say that again," Harry demanded quietly, sure he'd misheard.

"Cobbleshot. It's partly the reason I was so annoyed with her. Out of the blue, she pulled us both aside." Hermione pursed her lips. "She's so strange," she complained. "It's impossible to tell if she was really trying to help or if she was just curious what would happen."

"What did happen?" Harry asked through a clenched jaw. For all that her class was interesting, this new professor's sins seemed to keep multiplying. He hadn't forgotten how much he'd hated the way she'd acted toward Hermione on the train. But forcing Malfoy on her? That was nigh unforgivable. It was as if she thought she was playing with dolls instead of real people going through real crises. And the more Harry thought about it, the more angry he became.

"Nothing happened, really," said Hermione. "She told us something to the effect of, if we both had to be alone, we might as well be alone together. She couldn't know that we didn't care for one another. But I was still irritated at him over the comment he made. We basically ignored each other until she lost interest and wandered away. But I think...I think perhaps Draco had _wanted_ to say something, but Cobbleshot put him off. And then when she was gone I left before he had a chance."

Didn't care for one another? The _comment_ he made? How about they _hated_ each other and he used a _nasty slur_? Harry just couldn't understand Hermione's nonchalance. "Don't tell me you're starting to think she was right and now we should all be friends?"

"Of course not," she said, but without much conviction.

"Because I'll be _damned_ if we'll be replacing Ron with that _git_ ," Harry went on heatedly.

Hermione looked horrified. "We won't be 'replacing' Ron with anyone," she said quietly but firmly.

"Gods. Hermione, you know that's not what I meant!"

"Well, it's what you _said_ ," she snapped with a scowl. Harry bit his lip and tried to rein in his temper.

"All I'm saying is Malfoy is an arsehole, lonely or not." Hermione didn't respond, obviously brooding on something. Harry wasn't in the mood for divination. "What is it?" he said wearily. "Just say what you're thinking, Hermione."

"Sometimes people can change, Harry," she said in a small but resolute voice.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Harry demanded in a fierce whisper. "Or have you forgotten who we're talking about?"

"He's been through a lot," she argued back in the same whisper. "You know it must have been his father who was poisoning him, or else Narcissa would have sent him to Durmstrang this year with all the other Death Eaters-in-training. I just think maybe, now that Lucius is gone, now that he's seen where that mentality gets a person...perhaps he's started to gain a new perspective, is all," she reasoned, almost as though she were speaking as much to herself as to Harry.

"Not everything is a project, Hermione," Harry said, snatching half a sandwich from his plate and shouldering his bag. "And not everyone is worth saving." He could tell the words had wounded, but he was too irritated to take them back just yet. "I have to go for a session with McGonagall. You coming?" he asked, trying to sound civil and failing.

"I think I'll stay here and read my Quibbler, thanks," she snipped over her shoulder at him, burying her nose in the paper.

"Fine," he spat back. He stalked out of the Great Hall without looking back.

His fight with Hermione preoccupied him during his entire lesson with McGonagall. He was meant to be Transfiguring the Quaffles she was lobbing at him into...anything softer and less Quaffle-like. But after a fourth one in a row bounced dully off his forehead, she became fed up with his distraction.

"Pull your head out of the clouds, Mister Potter," she instructed irritably. "You will apply yourself to my teaching or next time we'll be using Bludgers!"

When Harry stomped back up to the Common Room, there was no sign of Hermione. It was just as well. Getting pelted with Quaffles had done nothing to ease his temper. He knew, deep down, he was equally annoyed at Draco, Cobbleshot, and himself. But it didn't change the fact he _was_ annoyed. Besides, he had the makings of a headache. He thought of working on Cobbleshot's homework, but he couldn't focus for the mental images he kept having of her shoving Hermione and Draco together in an empty classroom. He snatched up a copy of the Quibbler someone had left on the sofa table instead. The damn things were everywhere.

"I'll just stay and read my Quibbler, thanks," he mocked in falsetto under his breath as he flipped, almost violently, through the pages. He perused an exclusive interview with the Cottingley fairies, then skimmed a recipe for DIY Ghoul repellent. There was even a personals section, no doubt so one could connect with their conspiracy theorist soulmate.

"Dear 'Looking for a Shot in the dark'," he read aloud to himself. "She'll Pass." Too bad for ol' Shotty.

It was tripe. Bollocks. Rubbish. All of it. Especially his present situation. Harry tossed the paper in the bin and went to retrieve his invisibility cloak, deciding to skip Charms.

It seemed he wasn't the only one playing truant. On his way to Remus' rooms, he passed a group of Third Years bouncing a screaming yo-yo off the wards on one of the windows and collapsing into giggle-fits over the resulting cacophony the two noises made. Which did nothing to help Harry's headache.

"Hey, you lot!" Filch shouted from the end of the corridor, shaking his fist at them. They scattered, still laughing, as Filch hobbled after the nearest offender.

" _Brats_. Don't they know it sets off a bloody alarm in my office every time someone messes with those ruddy wards," he grumbled to himself as Harry slipped past. "Why'd they have to put it in _my_ office, what I'd like to know. When I catch those grubby...Going to regret the day they were..." He was still complaining long after Harry was out of earshot.

Harry knocked on Remus' door rather more loudly than he intended, only realising after he'd done so that Remus might not even be in. Harry had simply needed a balm and had instinctively come here. But the door did open. Harry yanked the cloak from his head, startling Remus who surely hadn't been expecting him for hours.

"You've really got to stop doing that," he chided with a smile Harry didn't return. Harry tossed a 'sorry' over his shoulder as he passed Remus' threshold. "By all means, come in," Remus deadpanned. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home."

"Sorry," Harry repeated, meaning it this time. He tossed his cloak over the arm of the sofa before plopping down on a cushion. "And yes, I'm skipping class. Please, just scold me about it later, okay?"

Remus' brow puckered thoughtfully. He gently closed the door and then leaned against the frame with his arms folded, waiting.

"Hermione and I had a fight," Harry blurted. "Or, I don't know if it was really a 'fight'. We just got on each other's nerves. Or something." Harry scrubbed his hands through his hair in a frustrated gesture before letting them fall to his lap with a sigh. Saying it out loud made it all seem so silly. 

"Ah," Remus nodded. He walked over to perch on the cushion beside Harry and patted him consolingly on the knee. "It happens, you know. You have a tiff, you get over it. It's normal. Everyone does it eventually."

"We've just never really fought, y'know? We've disagreed. She's scolded. But this felt different. It's...not what we do," Harry said, somewhat confused by his present circumstance.

"Every relationship goes through changes," Remus assured him. "It's usually a good thing, though it may not seem so at the time. Want to tell me what happened?"

Harry picked sulkily at a loose thread on his cuff, feeling more foolish all the time. "Nothing, really. It's just, I think she's trying to make friends with Malfoy."

Remus was in turns surprised and pleased. "Would that really be such a terrible thing?"

Harry looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. "You do know who Draco Malfoy is?"

"I'm familiar, yes."

"Hermione thinks he's changed," Harry complained. "As if he just woke up one morning and decided not to be a complete bloody prat anymore."

"And you don't think that's possible."

Harry gave him a withering look. "That doesn't really happen."

"Doesn't it?" Remus asked, shifting so that they sat side-by-side. He leaned over confidentially. "Have you never had a revelation that changed the way you viewed the world? Changed how you behaved toward others? Remember, Harry, you don't know all of Draco's story. And you're unlikely to if you never give him a chance. Passing judgement is the easiest thing in the world. It takes courage to believe in someone, especially if they've given you reason not to in the past. I'm not saying you should pass your trust out indiscriminately. But think of the times _you've_ been misjudged. If you let him, Draco just may surprise you." Remus could seem to tell it was a hard sell by the stubborn set of Harry's bottom lip, so he changed tact. "Listen, believe what you will about Draco. But patch things up with Hermione, will you?" he said, nudging Harry's shoulder with his own, coaxing a small smile from the boy. "And the sooner the better. They say you should never go to bed angry with someone you love. Whatever this quarrel is about, it isn't important enough to let it come between you, surely."

Harry nodded resignedly. Remus was right. Draco wasn't worth it. Remus smiled, patted Harry once on the knee as if all was settled and then, to Harry's chagrin, he stood up.

"Now, I've got an errand to run for Dumbledore. Should I expect you for tea?" he asked, throwing a scarf over his ever-present cardigan. Harry nodded.

"Does this mean I have to go to Charms now?" he winced. Remus laughed.

"We'll let it slide. _This_ time," he added with feigned seriousness. "I'll tell Professor Flitwick you were ill."

"I do have a headache," Harry said too brightly, earning him a lopsided smile from Remus. He caught himself and explained with a shrug, "McGonagall bounced Quaffles off my head for half an hour."

Remus really laughed at that. The mirth sparkling in his pale eyes made Harry feel better already. "I'm sure I have something for your head. You should head back to Gryffindor and lie down, though."

Harry groaned. "Can't I just lie down here?" he asked hopefully, indicating the sofa. He thought Remus himself might be even better medicine and was annoyed that he had to leave.

Remus' smile faded and he looked uncomfortable. Harry thought he might capitulate, but finally he said, "And how are you supposed to make up with Hermione from my sofa? Go on now, Harry," he said, pressing a phial of headache cure into Harry's palm. "I'm leaving anyway. You can tell me how it went this evening."

Harry was demonstratively reluctant, but he pulled himself up and stuffed his cloak into the pocket of his jumper. "Thanks, Remus," he said, giving him a quick hug. The gesture seemed more natural each time he dared it.

"Anytime, Harry," he said warmly, patting him on the shoulder as he urged him out the door. "Like I told you before, I'm always here for you."

Harry took his time making his way back to Gryffindor Tower. His headache disappeared without the help of Remus' potion, so he slipped it in his pocket as he strolled. Charms was over and dinner was in full swing, but Harry didn't think that was the best place for him and Hermione to settle their differences. So he wandered a bit instead, killing time and trying to work out what to say to her.

Harry wasn't good with apologies, especially when he still thought he was in the right to be angry. Hermione's heart was too big for her own good. Harry usually had a soft spot for an underdog, too. But Draco most decidedly did not count. Harry was convinced that the only reason he wasn't having a high time terrorizing the remains of Slytherin and naming himself unofficial House King was due solely to the absence of his faithful thugs. If he had had any muscle at all, or any bollocks for that matter, Harry was sure Draco would have led the charge at breakfast that morning instead of some overprotective Hufflepuff. Harry couldn't put his finger on it, but he had the feeling the ferret was up to something.

But without proof, he'd never be able to convince Hermione of it. In fact, he suspected the more he tried to pull them apart, the harder she'd likely fight to prove Harry wrong. Best to let it--whatever this was--run its course. This was Hermione, after all. If there was something fishy about Draco, she'd see it. She was just that clever. And Harry realised he was probably wrong to have so little faith in her judgement.

For that matter, as far as apologies went, she would probably deduce most of what Harry wanted to say without him having to actually say it. So he thought he may as well just find her first and take it from there.

The task was easily done, as she was on the Common Room sofa when he climbed through the portrait hole. She glanced at him, obviously still piqued, and went back to her studying. Harry went and sat beside her, but with the exception of scooting ever so slightly away, as though to avoid accidentally touching him, she pointedly ignored him.

Perhaps this was going to be harder than he thought. Not knowing where to start, he glanced over at the papers she was studying, thinking he'd express some interest and break the ice. But she quickly turned them away. Before they were hidden though, he managed to ascertain that she was working on Cobbleshot's assignment. He wasn't sure why, but it pleased him. He almost supposed she'd blow it off in protest.

"Still mad at me, then?" he ventured after an uncomfortable silence. Her scowl faltered, but she didn't answer. He figured he might as well just take the plunge. "Hermione, listen," he said, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I don't like fighting with you. You're entitled to your opinion. I may not like it, but, well, I like _you_. And that's more important. Will you forgive me?"

Her severe expression only lasted a few more moments under the pressure of his puppy-dog face. Harry wondered what he'd been worried about. That had been unexpectedly simple.

Hermione nodded, turning to him, suddenly all softness and yielding. "Oh, Harry. I'm sorry, too," she said quietly. She gave him a searching, doe-eyed look. Harry, slightly confused, wasn't sure what else to do but smile down at her. She smiled as well, almost shyly, then laying aside her homework, she dug an apple from her pack and handed it to him. "Since you missed dinner."

"Ah, Hermione. I could kiss you!" he said, accepting it gratefully. He was too busy devouring it to notice her blush. He turned his attention entirely to the fruit for a while before asking, around a mouthful of apple, "So. What'd I miss in Charms?"

"Nothing much," she said, looking less than impressed with his manners but glad that he seemed to enjoy her offering. "So...Where were you, anyway?"

The question sounded nonchalant, which Harry suspected meant it was anything but. He shrugged, a bit embarrassed. "With Remus," he confessed. "Well, for a little while, at least. I felt like blowing off some steam. Had a headache. Remus gave me something for it."

"I'm sure he did," she said, so quietly Harry almost missed it. But before he could wonder on it, she said, much more stiffly than a moment ago, "I'll lend you my notes from class."

"Hermione, you are the best friend ever, you know that?" he proclaimed. He beamed at her, relieved that things seemed to be resolved. But far from being pleased, the comment seemed to unsettle her. "Hey. You okay? What's wrong?" he asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Nothing," she insisted, despite being clearly flustered. Her smile was forced and short-lived, and she promptly but gently brushed away his hand. "Just tired, I suppose." Harry sighed inwardly. He should have known that had all been too easy. Girls, even when you weren't dating them, were never that easy. "You know, I think I'll just work on this upstairs," she said abruptly. And before Harry could object, she was gone, leaving him with an apple core, a roll of parchment, and the distinct impression he had missed something important.


	27. The Spurns That Patient Merit of the Unworthy Takes

Hermione acted far more coolly toward him after that. They still spent all their waking time together, but she no longer reached for his arm or touched him at all in any casual way. It bothered him, and even though they were so often together, Harry began to miss Hermione. He began to miss the need she had had for him even though he hadn't wanted it at the time. But he kept his disquiet to himself, as he figured he'd just muck things up further by trying to talk about it.

The rest of the student body, however, was becoming slightly more friendly. The more time that passed, the more distant the memory of the trauma became, the less hostile they behaved toward Harry and Hermione. Life was almost normal. Though, confinement to the Castle made them all restless, and Harry found on his evening excursions to Remus' quarters that more and more students were flouting the rules and sneaking out after curfew for quick trysts and other mischief. Harry was going to have to start taking more care when he went out to avoid discovery.

On Wednesday, they found themselves once again in Cobbleshot's ridiculously poorly lit dungeon classroom. She stood waiting for them at the door of a spacious but empty storage room and advised them all to queue up for their casting test. Voices stifled and notes in hand, they shuffled over to do so. They were all more enthusiastic than Harry might have expected. He suspected that they, like him, had been fascinated with the assignment and were eager to see the results of their efforts.

Harry was, perhaps, more nervous than the rest. He felt he might have done something wrong while working on the spell, as his parchment was filled with contradictory impressions. He hadn't even written whole sentences, just 'bright but pitch', 'round and sharp', 'deep' and 'restless' and 'patient' and 'close'. 'Potent'. Altogether, it seemed a bit like nonsense to Harry, and he only hoped finally casting would provide some insight.

“Not here, Little One,” Cobbleshot said, pulling Harry from the middle of the line and steering him to the end. He blushed at the pet name, trying to ignore the quiet sniggers it elicited from his classmates, and allowed himself to be re-queued. Thankfully, Hermione followed without a word, her expression almost daring Cobbleshot to comment. Which of course she didn't, though she did give Hermione a long, bland look.

One by one, they were shut into the darkened closet with the professor. Sometimes, there was no indication at all that anything was happening inside. Other times, coloured lights, bangs, or mists escaped through the cracks around the door. Whatever the spell was, it seemed the result was different for each caster. Everyone who went into the little room emerged looking dazed. Some seemed pleased, others troubled, so that those still in line felt increasingly restless as their turn neared.

Apparently, Cobbleshot was not a firm believer in things like class schedules, and after each student completed their task they were allowed to leave. The classroom was completely silent as the last student before Hermione stepped through the door looking terrified.

“You nervous?” Harry whispered. Something about the setting forbade raised voices.

“Not really,” Hermione replied, even as she worried the edges of her parchment to tatters.

“You think we're allowed to talk about it after?” he wondered. “Everyone was so quiet when they left.”

“Surely. But...maybe you end up not wanting to,” she said anxiously. Harry nodded and swallowed nervously.

A short 'pop' and a muffled cry sounded from the strange room, and a short time later, the boy who had been inside wandered out looking vaguely confused and walked past them out the door.

Harry took a deep breath. “See you on the other side, then,” he said as Hermione contemplated the open door.

“Yeah,” she said distractedly. “I'll wait for you in the hall, okay?” she offered, still not moving.

“Next,” Cobbleshot called in a tone just this side of disinterested. Hermione steeled herself and went in, closing the door behind her.

She was there a long while, longer than the students who went before, and Harry became concerned. But finally, a warm, golden flash of light outlined the door from within, its beams fading to glittering sparkles that died slowly. Hermione emerged with a dreamy look on her face.

“Oh, Harry,” was all she said, rather breathlessly, before wandering toward the exit. Which set Harry's heart thumping. Hermione wasn't easily awed.

“Next.” This time it was an almost feline purr, as if _this_ , Harry, was what the professor had been waiting for. Harry quashed his apprehension and stepped determinedly inside. But his confidence left him when he heard Cobbleshot's voice waft from a darkened corner. “Well, now. Here we are at last, Little One.” Harry couldn't see her in the dim light but turned in the direction of her voice.

“Do you think you could maybe not call me that?” he said, his own voice quavering only slightly. She chuckled. It sounded vaguely like a cat with a hairball.

“Alright, Harry,” she said. Which Harry instantly disliked even more than 'Little One'. Why did she suddenly sound so intimate? And interested? She'd been the definition of blasé since he'd met her. Well, except for that night at Grimmauld Place. “Did you bring your notes?”

Harry handed them over reluctantly, almost wishing he had had time to start the assignment over. “They don't make much sense,” he said as disclaimer. “It all seemed a bit complicated, but I wrote it down anyway.”

“Oh, I'm certain your inner workings are very complicated, _Harry_.”

Harry didn't feel complicated. Uncomfortable maybe, but not complicated.

“If you have not already deduced, this spell gives us a glimpse of your inner self, which you must be well acquainted with if you want to unlock your potential. The results may or may not surprise you. But regardless, we're both about to learn a lot about who you are inside, Harry Potter. At least, who you are at the moment.” Harry swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “Now. Find the spell within you first, and when you meet it, allow it to come out. And Harry?” she added. “You should probably brace yourself. I know I will.”

Harry nodded shakily, lifted his wand, and closed his eyes. He reached for that strange, dichotomous essence within, which was both alien and familiar at the same time, and almost unconsciously he spoke the spell.

" _Animus Secretum_."

At first, he didn't think anything had happened and that he had failed, but when he opened his eyes, he found the space at the tip of his wand swelling with a sort of glowing orb wreathed in writhing blades of some sort of black mass, almost like a small sun wrapped in shredded shadows.

“Open up, Harry. You're holding back,” Cobbleshot encouraged, excitement clear in her voice.

Harry did. And it was easy as exhaling. He opened his soul and something leapt from it. And not just from his soul, but also from his wand...and from his scar. Power streamed from both, sending the orb shooting across the small space to explode violently against the far wall, the light obliterating the darkness. The force knocked Harry from his feet and into the door behind him, the impact striking all the air from his lungs. His ears rang. And in his head, behind his scar, something stirred. Voldemort, no doubt, had noticed what had just happened, and Harry was bombarded with a wave of emotions that did not belong to him. Surprise and confusion. Uncertainty and anger. It was gone as quickly as it had come--for the most part--and Harry's thoughts were soon his once again. But he trembled from the sudden but violent onslaught and its implications, unsure if Voldemort had withdrawn entirely or if it was wise to search and see.

Still hidden in the shadows, and now beyond a cloud of dust, Cobbleshot cackled. Harry dragged a breath into his starved lungs. He was unsure if the irritation that rose in him at her response was entirely his own, but it was potent. “I'm not sure that was a good idea,” he wheezed.

“Oh, it was brilliant, My Little Harry. Perfection.”

It was certainly something. He understood why everyone had left dazed. Knowing he possessed that kind of force was both empowering and unsettling. He'd already known, of course. He'd practically set off a psychic bomb in Dumbledore's office. But this...this he had called up intentionally. This he could conceivably control.

“That's all for today,” she said, dismissing him.

Harry quite felt like the experience required some discussion, but he didn't want to spend any more time than necessary in this woman's presence. He'd discuss it with Hermione. He picked himself up from the ground, brushed himself off, and went to find her.

She was waiting just outside the classroom door. “Harry, are you alright? I heard the...explosion.” There really wasn't another word for it, and it was now obvious to both of them why Harry had gone last. “Did you really do that?"

“Apparently,” Harry said, suspecting he might have had a little help from a source he'd rather not talk about.

“Wow. I mean...wow,” she repeated, her usual eloquence completely escaping her.

“I saw a bit of yours, too,” he said. “Pretty impressive.” She shrugged, but Harry could tell she had been pleased with herself. “Let's go to lunch. I'm starving.” He wanted to discuss the effects of the spell, but apparently detonating your inner essence was hungry work. They could do their talking in the Great Hall. As they made their way out of the dungeons, Hermione walked even further away from him than she had been that morning. Harry's feelings were a little hurt, but he ignored it. Maybe she was still grappling with her own experience and wanted some space.

Just like after their last class, Snape passed them in the hallway, again clutching something in his hand, something being partially hidden by his voluminous sleeve. But this time, Harry's curiosity got the better of him. “Hermione, wait here for me,” he whispered urgently. She stopped and gave him an inquiring look, but he was already moving, quickly tiptoeing back in the direction from which they'd just come. He peeked around the corner at Cobbleshot's classroom door just in time to see Snape hand her a small vial of potion. She held it up to the light to examine the viscous red contents. His suspicions confirmed, Harry slipped back to where he'd left Hermione as quickly as he could do so quietly, bursting to tell her what he'd seen. What he saw when he rounded the corner, however, immediately drove his new discovery from his mind.

Draco Malfoy was talking to Hermione. Not just talking to her: whispering to her, his head leaned forward, standing far more closely than Harry could conceivably allow. Without a word, Harry stalked over to the two, and before Draco could respond, almost before he noticed Harry's approach even, Harry reared back and punched the Slytherin squarely in the face.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped as Draco fell with a thump, flat of his arse, on the floor.

“You stay away from Hermione, you hear me, Malfoy?” he said, towering over him with a pointed finger. “Or next time I'll do more than punch you,” he promised, his voice low and threatening. Draco didn't even sneer, his posture as he sat on the floor was of complete surrender.

“Harry, how could you!” Hermione scolded, pushing him aside to kneel beside a rather pathetic, bleeding Draco. Harry just gaped at her, annoyed beyond words.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he started to exclaim but was interrupted by a stern voice behind him.

“Harry Potter!”

Snape brushed past him to see to Draco. He knelt but was almost immediately brought back to his feet by apparent disgust. He gave Harry a murderous look before bending back to his task. Harry's hands curled into fists. He felt like punching them both.

“Detention,” Snape proclaimed as he inspected Draco's broken nose, looking almost ill. He set the bone with a spell that caused Draco to yelp, then cleared away the blood with a scouring spell, but it still poured fresh from both nostrils. Draco did his best to stop the flow with his hand. “Until further notice,” Snape added with an irritated growl, helping the boy to his feet. “Come, Draco, we may as well get you to the infirmary,” he sighed, clearly put out at the inconvenience.

“I'll take him, Professor,” Hermione offered, pulling a handkerchief from her Mary Poppins-esque satchel and holding it--actually holding it up with her _own_ hand--to Draco's nose. Harry was so aghast he couldn't even form words. Hermione deliberately did not look at Harry as they turned away. Draco, however, sneered at him behind Hermione's back, then allowed himself to be led away, the very picture of faultless victimisation. Harry seethed, his scar prickling ever so slightly. He almost forgot Professor Snape was still there. The man regarded him for a while in silence.

“Harry,” he said finally, quietly, barely managing to distract Harry from his anger, frustration, and confusion. Harry was instantly chagrined. This was, perhaps, not the best way to reach that understanding with Snape he'd hoped for. “I expect you in my offices this evening... _at_ dinnertime. Do you understand?” Snape said calmly.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry replied, resigned. Snape nodded curtly and strode away. Harry waited until he was out of sight before delivering a frustrated kick to the wall next to him, then resting his forehead against it with a sigh.

 

 


	28. The Pangs of Disprized Love

Snape answered Harry's knock without saying a word. Harry would almost have preferred a scathing lecture to the subtle disappointment he saw on Snape's face as he looked down at him. He didn't even grace Harry with a sneer, he simply turned and immediately made for the Potions classroom. That Harry was meant to follow went without saying, and he did, head hung and feet shuffling with every step. He didn't regret punching Draco. He would gladly have done it again, but perhaps somewhere Snape wouldn't have seen. And of course, it had to have been Snape. It couldn't have been Cobbleshot or Professor Sprout. He would have taken McGonagall, even. Or anyone, really, with whom his history and present circumstances weren't so hopelessly complicated.

“Cauldrons,” was all Snape said before seating himself at his desk. He pulled a stack of essays over and began grading, completely ignoring Harry's presence.

Harry stood and glared at him for just a moment before turning to his task. Not because the task itself irritated him, it was standard. Harry's annoyance was with Snape's absolute refusal to acknowledge him. Grumbling inwardly, Harry rolled up his sleeves, snatched up some steel wool and cleaning potion, and began scouring the bottom of the first in of a veritable mountain of cauldrons. Merlin's Beard! It was as if Snape assigned his last class the most easily burnt, gluish potion known to Wizardingkind and then released them all early without having to tend to their tools. It took so much concentration to de-grime the damn things he almost didn't have enough left to fume.

Almost.

He still had ample unspent hostility for Draco, and he threw it into his work. The slimy, deceitful prat. There was no mistaking the sneer he'd given Harry as he left. But what Harry didn't know was what was behind it. Was it glee that Harry'd been caught in the act? Was it smug satisfaction that Hermione had taken his side over Harry's? Or was it more sinister? Bloody hell, it was likely all three. Harry didn't know why Draco was cosying up to Hermione, but he couldn't imagine a single scenario that didn't make Harry want to Crucio him.

Harry attacked the next cauldron with a fervour that bordered on violence.

Why couldn't Hermione see what was happening? She was so clever! Surely she should have some reservations about befriending Malfoy. Escorting him to the infirmary? Did she sit and hold his hand while they patched him up, too? That mental image threatened to throw Harry over the edge. His forehead prickled as he imagined it in greater and greater detail, despite his sincere desire not to, and he didn't even notice it. Hermione petting Draco, apologising to him for Harry's behaviour. Draco saying it's not her fault. The two of them _bonding_. Harry tossed the cauldron aside and snatched up the next.

He knew she wouldn't believe him about the smirk. He'd just sound prejudiced and overly protective and she'd dismiss it. But he had to say _something!_ Surely. But what? Once again his sheer impotence drove him to near rage. It just wasn't fair.

_You, of all people, should know that fairness is a farcical concept best reserved for fairytales and children's stories. We live in the real world, Mr. Potter._

Great. As if he wasn't riled up enough without Snape's bloody voice in his head.

Harry wasn't even looking at the cauldrons anymore, couldn't remember how many he'd ploughed through as he stewed, he just stared murder at the wall in front of him as he scrubbed. The tingling in his scar had reached a pitch that could no longer be ignored but, instead of frightening him, he wryly wondered if he couldn't use a bit of its destructive power on the goop welded to the bottom of the pot he was working on. He felt that strange, maniacal grin that had last appeared in Dumbledore's office tug at his cheeks. Or was it at breakfast last week? Or had he noticed it briefly while in Cobbleshot's cupboard? What did it matter? It felt like an old friend. Harry reached for another cauldron when he heard a quiet voice behind him.

“Enough.”

Harry didn't know how long Snape had been standing there or how he had managed to come so close without Harry noticing. Harry's scar fell dormant as his hands stilled, but his heart was hammering in his chest.

Snape came beside him and, without prelude or any gentleness, took hold of Harry's wrist to examine his hand. Somehow, Harry hadn't noticed it, but the skin around his nails had cracked and was bleeding. His fingertips were raw and his nails ruined. To make matters worse, the cleaning potion combined with whatever Harry had been scrubbing from the cauldrons had worked their way into the wounds, causing them to burn. Harry was a bit surprised but almost beyond caring.

Snape investigated each lesion, twisting Harry's wrist in several uncomfortable positions to do so, as Harry fixed his gaze stubbornly on the far wall. To add insult to injury, his stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. Harry ignored it.

Snape finished his rough examination but didn't relinquish Harry's wrist. He held it so long Harry finally dragged his attention to the Potions Master to find him squinting at Harry in an eerily still and intense fashion. It made Harry self-conscious, as if the man's eyes were stripping him bare to his core. Harry was uncomfortable, but not so much that he couldn't spare a passing thought to wonder what Snape saw there.

_Ungrateful whelp of a boy._

_Naive, impervious little..._

_Disobedience. Disrespect. Recklessness._

Harry's eyes suddenly, inexplicably, began to sting and, ashamed, he broke eye contact with Snape to blink away the unexpected wave of emotion. He'd never cared what Snape thought of him before. Why, all of a sudden, did he wish that Snape could see in him what others saw? That he could place the faith in him that they did? Why did Snape's scrutiny make him feel so useless and incompetent? Why on earth did he suddenly want Snape's respect?

Snape finally released Harry's wrist, much more gently than he'd taken it up, and Harry held his injured hands to his chest and stared at the sink, still trying to will away his threatening tears.

“Tell me, Harry. Did tonight's activities seem like punishment to you?” he asked. Not cruelly or sarcastically. Just plainly, as if he really was interested in the response.

Harry gritted his teeth. “Yes, Sir.”

Snape sighed, then went to a cabinet to retrieve some healing salve which he shoved into Harry's palm. “Same time tomorrow, Potter.”

Harry nodded without replying or making eye contact and left. He cradled the vial in his hand halfway back to Gryffindor Tower before it occurred to him to actually apply the stuff. It helped instantly, and Harry hadn't realised how much damage he'd done to himself or how much he was hurting until he abruptly didn't anymore. The skin healed before his eyes. Not completely. He was still pink and tender, but the salve had returned full function to his fingers. He worked them a little to make sure, but there was no longer any stiffness.

Hermione was in the Common Room when he arrived and, when he caught sight of her, Harry stopped cold. It was late, much later than Harry might have guessed. Time had sort of suspended itself during his detention, as it seemed to do in the dungeons. It must have at least been past curfew, and the Common Room was otherwise deserted.

Harry's expression betrayed nothing. Neither did hers, but then she saw his hands, the sorry state of them despite the salve, and she looked momentarily concerned. Apparently, she had been waiting for him, but perhaps his condition was making her reconsider whatever motive she had had for it. When Harry didn't speak or move, she scooted over on the sofa just a little in unspoken invitation for him to join her there. He stepped up to the couch but didn't sit.

“Harry, I think perhaps we should talk,” she began. She was having a hard time maintaining her determined posture.

“What about?” Harry's voice sounded dead even to his own ears, and each moment that passed made Hermione more troubled. He could tell that she was fighting the impulse to rush to his side and gingerly inspect his injuries, to be maternal and comforting; no doubt trying to convince herself that Harry's sores were well-earned but unable to completely override her concern.

“Please. Would you sit down?” she asked politely, imploringly. Harry complied but gazed at the fire. Its heat was felt keenly on his newly healed skin. Not painfully but noticeably.

“Harry,” she began carefully. “Last night...” She was screwing up her nerve. She delicately licked her lips. “Last night you said you cared about me.” She took a shaky breath. “You called me your friend.”

Harry turned to look at her, brow slightly furrowed. “You are, Hermione,” he said quietly. “My best friend.” Which is why he'd punch a thousand Dracos and endure as many digit-destroying detentions for it. He'd do anything for Hermione.

“Is that _all_ I am to you?” she asked in a voice so small and anguished he almost didn't catch it.

Harry scowled in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Can I never be more than just your best friend?” she asked, courage building slowly in her voice.

“Hermione. I don't understand what you're asking me.” Harry was weary, physically and emotionally. He suspected her meaning but so did not want to deal with it that his mind refused to process her words correctly.

“Could you never have...other feelings for me?”

Harry was reeling. Despite the pain it caused, he scrubbed his eyes with his ruined fingertips. “Hermione,” he said, shock and mild accusation tinting his voice. “Ron...Ron _just_ died.”

Her face crumpled momentarily but she recovered quickly with a deep, calming breath. “I know,” she whispered. “But-”

“Like, he _just_ died. Your boyfriend, my best mate, just died and you're hitting on me?” he asked, not cruelly, just incredulously.

“It's not like that," she insisted, desperate to be understood. "My feelings for you...Harry, how I feel about you did not change in just the last two weeks.”

“You mean, while you and Ron...?”

“Yes,” she confessed, blushing. Ashamed, but unable to hide the truth any longer. Harry wasn't sure what to say.

 _Everyone is always so concerned about_ Harry _. Even my own girlfriend._

Harry closed his eyes and tried to internalise the fact that Hermione had had feelings for him for...

_And here I thought, from what Padma's been hearing from Parvati all these years, that Hermione would be with Harry._

“How long?” he asked her quietly.

“A long time.” She had drawn her feet up onto the couch and was hugging herself, staring at the fire. Her voice was so small, but it was relieved, as if the admission had waited to pass her lips for far too long. “We get on so well. So much better than Ron and I ever did. We're just comfortable. Or, we were before.”

Harry sat back on the couch, waiting patiently for her to finish. Regardless of whether he wanted to hear this, she needed to say it. Deep down, they both knew what the outcome would be, but some things cannot be ignored, no matter the consequence.

“But there was always something missing,” she went on after taking a deep, steadying breath. “I liked you. I wanted to like you _that_ way. But something wouldn't let me. Not until this summer when you arrived at Grimmauld Place.” Harry turned to look at her and she met his eyes bravely. “You had changed," she said wonderingly. "I couldn't put my finger on it, but whatever piece had been missing wasn't missing anymore. And after that, being with Ron was...” She looked away and shook her head. “It felt like lying, but I didn't know what to do about it. And you were so distant. I understand that, you were busy. You _are_ busy. It's just that now, since losing Ron, I just feel like, like I _need_ you. I need you in a way...a way you can't be there for me,” she finished quietly, closing her eyes and causing a tear to course silently down her cheek.

Harry felt himself start to tear up, too. He could feel her pain and he hated it. But he couldn't bring himself to do the only thing that would soothe it. Because like she had said, it would be like lying, and Hermione deserved so much better than that.

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” he said, heartfelt and aching.

“I know,” she whispered.

They sat there, together but not, for a long moment swollen with regret and love and love unrequited before Hermione uncurled herself and went up to her room without another word. Harry stayed in the Common Room and stared at the fire until it faded to a whisper. And he couldn't help but wonder, as he watched it slowly expire, what else had died there that night, as well.


	29. Show of Such an Exercise May Colour Your Loneliness

Harry didn't visit Remus that night. He was too heartbroken. And while Remus would no doubt have been a great comfort, this was one ache Harry didn't want soothed. It seemed to deserve the respect of being felt fully for as long as it chose to reside. Harry had no right feeling better while Hermione was hurting, especially when she now had no one to go to herself to ease it.

She didn't sit with him the next day at breakfast, but she didn't avoid him. They greeted each other sadly but with fondness. It seemed she couldn't handle his nearness again just yet, so Harry allowed her her space. It did not go unnoticed. Harry tried to ignore the smug look on Draco's face. Despite the bruising at the inner corners of his eyes which Harry had inflicted the day before, he looked in better spirits than he had since term began. He sat straighter, and his attention to Hermione across the aisle was bold and, to Harry's mind, inappropriate. Luckily Hermione seemed too much in her own thoughts to return it.

“Trouble in paradise?” someone whispered behind him as Harry pushed his breakfast across his plate with his fork as if trying to nudge his appetite into returning. By the time he located the speaker, she was already halfway to the exit, but she glanced back at him with a sly smile. Harry couldn't tell if the comment had been mean-spirited, but he decided to ignore it, until a neatly folded note floated over from Merlin-knows-where and landed prettily in front of him on the table. Harry looked around and finally found a group of girls at the Ravenclaw table, hunched together, looking his way and giggling. One girl, however, looked away with a blush. Harry opened the note to read, in big, bubbly letters in pink ink:

_'If you're lonely, I'll be by the Astronomy Tower tonight after curfew.'_

It was punctuated with several curly hearts and little x's. As Harry was reading, the giggles appeared to attract Hermione's attention. Seeing them all looking in Harry's direction, she looked herself and noticed the scrap of parchment he held, bleeding with pink, and seemed to contract in on herself on realising what it must be. Harry, making sure he was clearly seen by the group, crumpled the note into the smallest ball he could manage and flicked it across the table. The giggling stopped. Harry tried to look over apologetically at Hermione, but she wouldn't meet his eye.

Harry arrived at Snape's offices again that night at the prescribed hour. Again, Snape led him with no prelude into the classroom. Harry turned automatically to the sink, but Snape stopped him. “Hands,” he demanded, holding out one of his own to receive them. Harry offered one for inspection. Snape examined his fingers closely. They were almost completely healed but apparently did not pass muster. The Potions Master retrieved more salve from the cabinet. Then, face completely impassive, he worked the ointment into Harry's skin himself, treating each finger with thorough care. It was a strange experience for Harry. It felt nice, but in an uncomfortable way. Because this was _Snape_  massaging his hands. Not in an overly delicate way, but also not without gentleness. Snape never looked at him, and when he was finished, after examining Harry's fingers once more and seeming satisfied, he simply said, “Cauldrons,” and went to his desk.

Harry was more careful this time and also much slower. The anger that had fuelled his fervour the night before had completely left him, replaced by deep sadness. Several times, he seemed to forget what he was doing, drifting off into thought and simply standing there, wool still in his hand as he tried to think of some way to bridge this schism with Hermione. Each time, upon noticing, Snape would simply say: “Harry.” It was enough to wake him back to his task and Harry would resume his chore. The pile of clean cauldrons, however, was much smaller than the night before.

“So. Did this feel like punishment, Harry?” Snape asked him again. Thankfully, Harry's hands needed no medical attention this time.

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said mechanically, still not looking at him as he did so.

Snape stared at him quietly for a moment. Then, he pulled out his wand and summoned a plate with two pieces of dry toast and thrust it into Harry's hands so that he had no choice but to accept it or else let it fall to the floor.

“Tomorrow.”

It was not so late when Harry returned to Gryffindor, and the Common Room was occupied. Harry did not find Hermione and so went to his room and collected his cloak, not caring what his housemates thought of the Portrait swinging open for seemingly no reason as it allowed him outside. Harry removed his cloak entirely before knocking on Remus' door this time.

“There you are,” Remus said warmly, standing aside to allow Harry entry. “I missed you last night.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he replied weakly. Harry didn't even make it to the couch. He stopped drifting halfway there and stood dejectedly in the middle of the room. Remus came beside and draped a hand on his shoulder, drawing Harry's attention. The concern he saw displayed on Remus' face made Harry ache in a way he didn't understand.

“Harry, what's happened?” Remus asked softly, eyes reflecting Harry's sadness. He took him gently by both shoulders to look down at him. Without answering, Harry ducked his head to let it rest in the centre of Remus' chest, and Remus responded by wrapping his arms around him and drawing him closer. Harry sighed wearily and allowed himself, arms hanging at his sides, to be held.

“Everything's all wrong, Remus,” he mumbled plaintively into Remus' shirt. Remus stroked Harry's hair before drawing back to see tears standing in Harry's eyes.

“Come and sit down,” he insisted, pushing Harry lightly in the direction of the sofa before he bustled over to retrieve the tea tray. He wrapped Harry's hand around a steaming cup of it before carefully sitting beside him, waiting for Harry to decide he was ready to speak.

“Remus, what do you do when someone you care about...when you don't feel the same way about each other?” Harry asked the contents of his teacup. Remus scowled lightly, slipping his hand over Harry's wrist.

“Is this about Hermione?” he asked sympathetically. Harry glanced over and just nodded. “You know, Harry, she probably just needs more time,” Remus began carefully. “And perhaps you should take it slowly, as well. I know this is a confusing time. Grief can be mistaken for any number of different emotions. Perhaps what you're feeling isn't what you think it is.”

Harry was momentarily confused. “No. It...it's the other way round,” he explained.

“Oh!” Remus exclaimed softly. “Oh, I see.” Though he didn't seem to and took a moment to process it. Harry noticed Remus' fingers tighten on his wrist momentarily before sliding off almost self-consciously.

“I hate that I hurt her feelings,” Harry went on. “But I don't know what to do that won't make things worse. And I need her, too. Just not in the same way.”

“It's a hard situation,” Remus sighed softly, seeming to be thinking of one of his own. He took a deep breath and shook his head, not looking at Harry as he spoke. “There's not really a solution. Time makes things easier. Or well, she'll eventually learn how to deal with it. It may never go away but you figure out how to get on with it, at least.”

Harry looked at him thoughtfully, wondering what past rejection Remus might be remembering and how anyone could turn down such a kind and considerate person. Harry wondered if it had to do with Remus' Lycanthropy. Or maybe the blokes he fancied just didn't fancy blokes. Remus must have been well acquainted with rejection; from society in general, but also likely from potential partners. Being both gay and a werewolf couldn't be easy. Harry pushed aside his own mess of feelings about Hermione and devoted what was left to Remus, reaching over and placing his hand over the ones Remus clasped together between his knees, squeezing the knot of fingers firmly. Remus looked up, almost surprised, and locked eyes with Harry.

“Thank you, Remus. For always being here for me. And I'm here for you, too,” he told him, his voice surprisingly fickle. “Just so you know.”

Remus swallowed hard, and the hands beneath Harry's seemed to tremble slightly. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Harry,” he rasped. “But don't you worry about me.” He forced a smile. “Now, what do you say we drink this before it gets cold?” He patted Harry's hand, but quickly, and then occupied both his own with a cup of tea. It was a little off-putting, and Harry wondered on how Remus could seem both eager and reluctant to touch Harry all at the same time. He also wondered on his own complete lack of reluctance, considering.

“So just leave it, then?” Harry asked. Remus had seemed distracted when Harry spoke and so was confused by the question. Harry clarified. “The thing with Hermione. It'll work out alright, won't it?”

“I can't imagine it not,” Remus assured him. “A friendship as strong as yours can surely weather a little thing like this.”

It didn't seem little to Harry, but he trusted Remus' judgement and experience and nodded, actually feeling relieved.

Harry left for Gryffindor buoyed. And the quiet of the corridors was comforting, so Harry decided to take the long way back to the Tower so he could think. Surely Remus was right. This was _Hermione_. Harry couldn't imagine anything that would so queer their friendship that it could not recover. He only needed to be patient. In the meantime, he would focus on his training. And when she was ready, he'd be waiting for her. It seemed so simple when one considered it. Harry actually smiled, having finally convinced himself that everything would be okay, when he heard voices in a disused classroom he was passing. Harry lightened his step to avoid notice, and he had padded all the way past the slightly opened door when he could have sworn he heard his name.

“I can tell Harry doesn't want to talk about any of these things.”

Harry stopped and strained his hearing to be sure. But, inexplicably, it was. It was Hermione. Who in Hell was she out talking to? In a deserted classroom after curfew, no less. He tiptoed back to the door and listened.

“But perhaps _I_ need to talk about them,” she went on. “He never seems to stop to consider that. Though, it probably just hasn't occurred to him. I know boys are different, bottling everything up.”

“Obviously, not all boys.”

Harry went rigid. There was no mistaking the other voice.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “These past couple of weeks, I've felt as though I might just burst.”

“Yeah. It's been nice having someone so kind and understanding to listen to me, too.”

Harry gently pushed on the door so that it swung open silently and unnoticed by the classroom's occupants, his wand-hand twitching.

Hermione and Draco sat together atop a desk too small for them to maintain an appropriate distance. Their shoulders brushed and Draco's head was tipped toward Hermione, who seemed reluctant to close the distance but not reluctant enough. Harry watched as their faces drifted closer to one another, frozen as though he were watching a horror film and unable to prevent the tragedy about to unfold. Before their lips touched, however, with a mighty effort, Harry found his voice.

“ _Hermione, have you gone mad?!_ ”

They both started, and Hermione sprang to her feet in surprise. Harry ripped off his cloak, looking like he was about to start breathing fire. Draco, far from acting intimidated, gave Harry a nasty, taunting look and then cast a more curious one to the cloak clutched in a death grip in Harry's hand. The little prick clearly had no idea how dangerous Harry had really become. Harry's scar roused itself with a flash like a struck match and he blasted murderous intent toward Draco with every breath, just seconds away from doing something completely and irreversibly ill-advised. But Hermione situated herself between them, blocking Draco from Harry's sight.

“Now, Harry,” she said soothingly, sensing impending violence and raising both her hands in a placating gesture. “Just calm down.”

“Calm down? You were half a second away from snogging that piece of dragon dung,” he declared, pointing an angry finger at Draco, “and I'm meant to be calm?!”

“Yes,” she hissed, becoming angry herself. “You are. It's no business of yours _whom_ I kiss! Especially since you don't-” She bit off the last of that sentence with a pained look but did not back down. “You have _no_ right to spy on me,” she said instead.

“I wasn't spying on you, Hermione!” Harry snapped back. “I was just-”

“I _know_ where you were,” she interrupted in an almost accusatory tone. Harry was taken aback by the rich bitterness in her voice. It was a reminder that this Hermione was no longer quite the Hermione he once knew. His scar quieted but his sense of misgiving did not.

But then, Hermione's bitterness faded as well, and she looked at Harry almost sympathetically. Draco seemed to have been practically forgotten by the both of them, and he stepped back into the shadows to keep it that way.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “ _Please_ don't do this to yourself.”

“Do what?” Harry asked, unsure what turn the conversation had just taken. Why was she looking at him like that? Like she about to break it to him that his pet goldfish had died or something. “Hermione,” he said apprehensively, “what on earth are you talking about?”

She sighed and shook her head sadly again. “He won't have you, you know,” she said quietly. “I understand you can't be with me. But don't think it's in favour of him.”  
  
Harry's pulse quickened. Something swam at the back of his mind, some understanding, some connection just waiting to be made. “Hermione, I-”

“It's all over both of you,” she grimaced. “I've seen it. But...Remus will never succumb to his feelings for you, Harry. He just isn't that kind of man.” Behind them, Draco gasped at the disclosure. Harry's cheeks burned and Hermione's hand flew to her mouth, realising what she'd just said and who she'd said it in front of. Harry reached for his wand, desperately wanting to Obliviate Draco, but Hermione lay a hand on his arm, stilling it. Harry still glared at Draco but couldn't stop from whispering to Hermione the question on the tip of his tongue.

“Why would you think I'd want him to?”

Hermione's brow furrowed pityingly and she laid a hand on his cheek to both comfort him and pull his gaze from Draco. “Harry,” she breathed, “do you really not know?” And something broke in him.

He gasped, recognition crashing into him with the force of a tsunami: Remus' attention, the touch of his hand making Harry's tingle, even just remembering. Sandy hair, the brush of lips. Bloody hell, Harry'd been _dreaming_ of it and he hadn't even _realised_ it.

The onslaught of memories and sudden understanding overwhelmed him, disoriented him, and he stumbled back away from Hermione. His gaze took in her embarrassed regret and Draco's sneering disgust, but they barely registered over the roaring revelation...that he was _attracted_ to Remus.

Sexually.

To his guardian.

His _male_ friend.

 _His very close gay male friend_.

“You two do whatever in Hell you want,” he muttered, backing toward the door. “I don't even care anymore.”

“Harry, wait,” Hermione pleaded. But Harry was already gone, out the door and running...running all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, his cloak flapping in his hand beside him, not caring if he was caught or who caught him or what would happen if they did.

 _I'm attracted to Remus._ It played over and over in his head, begging to be understood. _I'm attracted to Remus._ _I might be gay and I'm attracted to Remus._

He reached his room unmolested and flung himself onto his bed, yanking closed the curtains to kneel on his mattress, hugging himself, winded and shaking.

“You okay there, Harry?” Neville mumbled sleepily from his bunk. But Harry couldn't answer. He was trying not to have an aneurysm. When he received no answer, Neville drifted back to sleep. Harry listened to his soft snore and eventually managed to calm himself by degrees. He untangled himself from himself and flopped back on his pillow, thinking.

He realised the concept didn't bother him as much as he thought it might. Now that his panic had subsided, somewhere in the deepest parts of him, there was acceptance. It wasn't even that; it was more a feeling of ' _so you finally figured it out_ '. Once the shock wore off, he was left with a mild amazement. His subconscious had announced he was sexually attracted to men and his conscious self had basically just said, “Huh, well fancy that.”

Somehow, it had never occurred to him. Not really. But that wasn't entirely true, was it? He hadn't _allowed_ himself to consider it. But it had been there, at least since Grimmauld Place. It had been right in front of his face but he had refused to acknowledge it. But he should have known, by the way he reacted to Remus' eyes on his bare chest, to the touch of Remus' hand on his shoulder, on the back his hand...the way he seemed always to be reaching for Remus himself: stroking his back, hugging him, holding his hand.

 _Holding his hand!_ Bloody hell, Harry had really done that. And Remus had held his, had stroked it with his thumb so tenderly. Harry's eyes fell closed at the memory. Now that he allowed it, he realised the remembrance made more than just his fingers tingle.

_Oh, gods._

But it was good, was relieving to give his body permission to feel what it had been trying to feel for so long. And it was almost fascinating to Harry that it would react in such a way to such a stimulus. He was almost excited, and not just physically. This new possibility, his attraction to Remus, was thrilling now that it was feeling less and less alien.

Harry opened his mind and rummaged through it for every memory he had of him and Remus touching, being somewhat surprised by the volume. Remus' eyes scanning his nakedness had seemed an almost physical thing, so he tossed those onto the pile as well. And that's when Harry accepted the one last piece of the puzzle he'd been resisting. One that he had figured out a long time ago but had not yet linked to his current revelation.

He was attracted to Remus...and Remus was attracted to _him._

All the dots seemed to connect directly in Harry's penis. It was amazing how quickly it came to life. It didn't stir, it sprang to attention. Harry groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, lowering one of them to his crotch ostensibly to quiet his suddenly restless nether-region. But once there, both his hand and his groin seemed to have other ideas.

Harry took a shaky breath. _Was he really about to do this?_ The truth was he was doing it already, he realised. Listening for evidence of Neville's continued slumber first, Harry finally surrendered, closed his eyes, and opened the front of his jeans.

He called to mind the way Remus looked at him in those rare unguarded moments, the hunger and intensity of his stare, and Harry shivered. He took the memory of Remus stroking the back of his hand and transferred it, imagining that those gentle, attentive fingers were stroking his shaft instead, moving his own hand in unison with the fantasy.

Harry bit his lip to stifle the moan that threatened. It wasn't like Harry had never wanked behind his bed hangings before. He was a teen-aged boy, it's kind of what they did. But his typical, fevered routine had never been this satisfying when thinking about Cho, or even that one time about Ginny. It had always been quick, purposeful. He'd never taken this much care, had never managed to so realistically visualise the sensation of a hand other than his own sliding up and down his swollen length. Harry added to it everything he could remember about the wet dream he'd woken to days prior. He imagined burying his fingers in soft, short, sandy hair as Remus chuckled breathily in his ear at Harry's enthusiasm before claiming Harry's mouth with his own...kissing him gently at first, then with more urgency as Remus' hand worked his erection more and more thoroughly, breaking off only to whisper Harry's own name against his lips as the boy came.

Harry gasped as his balls seized. His orgasm rocked him in waves, which had never really happened to him before. Not to this extent.

And _gods_ , it had taken so little--embarrassingly little--to drive him over the edge. And it had been good. It had been enlightening.

But fuck... _what in Hell did Harry do about it now?_


	30. There is a Kind of Confession in Your Looks, Which Your Modesties Have not Craft Enough to Colour

Walking into the Great Hall the next morning, Harry was paranoid. Had Draco told everyone he had encountered since about what he'd overheard the night before? Was Hermione just especially perceptive, or was it written all over him?

Could other people tell he was gay?

And was he even? Could being attracted to one man qualify you? Harry cast surreptitious glances at the other boys around him, but nothing about them stirred anything in Harry, even the ones he knew to be objectively attractive. Though, perhaps that was just because all he could think about, every time he closed his eyes, every time his mind drifted...was Remus.

Harry felt as if everyone was looking at him, judging him. He knew it wasn't true. He could see for himself that most of the Great Hall seemed no longer to care about his comings and goings, but that didn't stop his cheeks from colouring whenever he accidentally made eye contact with strangers.

Harry took a seat at the Gryffindor table and warded Hermione off with a look. Not a cruel one, just an 'I'm not ready' kind of one. Draco was nowhere to be seen, to Harry's immense relief. Luna came around with a new copy of The Quibbler which Harry accepted without a word. If she thought it was strange, she gave no indication. But then, this was Luna. She wouldn't.

Harry simply stared at his food. He didn't even toy with it. He was too preoccupied. Harry wondered if this was what it was like for Remus. This fear of--expectation of--judgment. Really, it wasn't the judgment Harry feared, it was the resulting hassle. If Harry was gay (which he wasn't entirely certain of yet) he wasn't ashamed of it. But he knew how ugly prejudice could be. He knew this would give some people just one more excuse. He knew that some _looked_ for that excuse. And Remus was a _werewolf,_ too. Harry was suddenly troubled, fearing that maybe Remus' condition was not the sole cause of all of his scars.

Sure, Harry was The Boy Who Lived, a veritable tragedy-magnet, but that was a unique reason for bias. It wasn't automatic. What Remus was... _who_ he was, was vastly different. And thinking of all the ways Remus was rejected by 'normal' society, how isolated and lonely he must be because of it, only made Harry that much fonder. It made him want to be Remus' source of comfort in a cruel world as he supposed--he _hoped--_ Sirius had been.

Thoughts of his godfather made Harry uncomfortable and confused his feelings toward Remus. Sirius had been a father-figure to Harry. An unconventional one, but one nonetheless. He was cool and related easily to Harry, but he was still very much the adult and Harry the child. Harry was tempted to consider him an older brother, but the reclassification would not stick. And if Sirius was like a father to him and Remus had been Sirius' lover...

Of course, this was the reason for Remus' awkwardness. He, too, must be grappling with this juxtaposition. But when Harry simply considered Remus and himself, leaving Sirius out of the equation, it just seemed comfortable. Right. Craved.

Harry gave up on breakfast. He left the Great Hall, Quibbler in hand but food untouched, and went back to his room where he spent most of the day doing and thinking nothing especially productive. Since the night before, he couldn't seem to keep his hands off himself, wishing more and more each time that it really was Remus doing all the things he imagined Remus was doing to him. And Harry was a little surprised at himself how imaginative he could be when it came to it, considering he had absolutely no practical experience. It was an accidental mercy that it happened to be the weekend, as he did not even want to think about having to suffer through History of Magic in such a state.

He wasn't completely free of responsibility, though. That night he stopped by the kitchens to fill his belly before arriving at Snape's offices, hoping the Potions Master wouldn't suspect. Their routine firmly established, no words were spoken this time as they reported to their stations, and Harry had left plenty of cauldrons still in need of cleaning from the night before.

Harry found a steady rhythm, neither neglecting nor abusing the cauldrons this time. It was almost comforting to have something occupying his hands, allowing his mind the opportunity to wander. Of course, it didn't wander far from where it had been all day, just down an adjacent avenue.

Harry _would_ figure this out. Hermione might not believe Remus would give in to his feelings, but she'd only seen the tip of the iceberg. Harry alone had some inkling of the depth of Remus' desire. He felt certain that if he gave Remus the opportunity, the permission, that Remus would not refuse him.

 _Them_.

The thought of _them_ filled Harry with warmth again, but it wasn't localised as it had been the rest of that day. Right now it was as if they two were a potion with one missing ingredient. Though, Harry finally forced himself to really take into account what Hermione had said. Remus _would_ fight it. It was just the kind of man he was. And the kind of man he was was one of the reasons Harry was so attracted to him. But the thought of rejection was too painful for Harry to consider seriously. He'd just have to convince Remus somehow that it really was okay. Afterwards... Afterwards, surely he couldn't deny it.

Surely.

For the first time since the possibility had occurred to him, Harry felt apprehensive. Unsettled, he reached for another cauldron and realised, to his surprise, there were none left to clean. He set down his tools and turned to Snape who simply looked up from his papers, noticed the lack of dirty cauldrons, and nodded.

“Did this still feel like punishment, Harry?” he asked, not bothering to even rise from his seat. Harry reflected for half a second. It hadn't really. But he felt certain this was not the answer Snape was looking for. “Yes, Professor,” he lied. Snape narrowed his eyes at him, and Harry squirmed under his scrutiny. _Let him believe me_ , Harry willed, half-afraid Snape would be unsatisfied and decide to invent something else for Harry to do.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Tomorrow, Potter.” Harry left before Snape had the opportunity to change his mind.

Harry had finished early. As the hour when Harry would typically go and visit Remus crawled closer, Harry lay on his bed and became more and more nervous. There was no way he could go and have tea and chat and pretend that this profound shift had not occurred within him. He absolutely could _not_ sit so close to Remus on his tiny threadbare sofa, easily within his reach, without actually reaching out for him. His desire felt like a thing outside of him, something almost corporeal that could force his hand. Harry clasped his head between his hands as if he could squeeze his want out of himself or, barring that, his doubts. The two could not coexist.

It occurred to Harry he could just not go. But it was a token thought. Harry knew himself well enough to know impulse control was not his strong suit. Especially now, when he still felt so disjointed and unanchored. He would almost have thought the opposite would be true. With so much of his life being outside of his control, he would have thought he would seize on this one thing he _could_ control: Himself. But the bald truth was he simply did not want to. He expended so much energy dealing with the things that were beyond him, he didn't _want_ to apply whatever was left to what wasn't.

The customary hour came and went, and Harry still wrestled with the question. And yet, as the clock ticked over, the seconds suddenly seemed to pass more slowly. It seemed to take an eternity for him to accept the decision he'd made, but in reality, it was not very long at all. Not long enough. Not long enough to tell himself, “Well, it's too late for it now, anyway,” and to roll over and resolve to deal with it tomorrow.

Harry pulled his cloak closed under his chin and knocked on Remus' door. Not timidly. He'd come with a purpose, and if he hesitated he knew he'd lose courage.

Remus answered with a cheerful expression. “I was starting to think you wouldn't be coming tonight.”

Harry tried not to think about all the ways that comment could be interpreted, but then he couldn't stop. He looked at Remus,  _really_ looked. There was The Smile, The Crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the kind sparkle of dark amber. There were the tawny hair and thin lips, the graceful nose and narrow cheeks. There was the sharp, angular jaw Harry had fantasised about running his lips across all day now. Remus really was handsome. It was the kind of handsome that wasn't necessarily apparent straight away but that nonetheless revealed itself to one slowly over time with looking. Harry's breath caught in his throat and his doubts evaporated. Of course, he wanted this man, and it seemed now he had for such a long time. How had it taken him so long to realise it?

“Come in, the tea's ready,” Remus invited, oblivious to the hope written on every plane of Harry's face. And his voice. _Gods_. So smooth and soft, so guileless. No wonder Harry always came here to be comforted by it. Now he imagined it saying things to him that were less innocent and comforting, and the contrast made Harry's head swim.

He followed Remus inside without a word. His own voice would have been worthless just then, a squeak if it came out at all. Closing the door firmly behind him, Harry leaned back against it for support. He realised he was trembling uncontrollably and steeled his will. But his heart was beating so hard he felt almost certain Remus' lupine senses would notice. Harry tried to slow his breathing and focus. Of course, he really had no idea what he was doing, but when had that ever stopped him before?

When Remus reached the couch and realized his ward had not followed he turned to look for him. “Harry? Are you alright?” he asked, coming closer, unsettled by the unfamiliar expression of wide-eyed determination on Harry's face. “What-?”

Harry chose that moment to straighten and, still shaking, remove his cloak; discarding it at the doorstep to reveal himself in little but his thin school robes which hung open unambiguously. Remus froze, alarm and confusion chasing each other across his face. Harry waited. The look he wanted hadn't yet come, though he had no doubt it was only a matter of time.

Remus swallowed hard. Then again. “Harry, I don't understand. Has something happened? Are you okay?” Remus' voice shook. His words sought to comfort but, as Harry hoped it would, his gaze became keen and drifted away from Harry's eyes. Instead of rushing forward to console him, Remus took a small step back, one hand half-raised at his side as if it could not decide whether it wanted to reach for Harry or else shield Remus from him somehow.

It was what Harry had been waiting for, as clear as a spoken admission. Remus wanted him.

 _Too_ , Harry added in his head, pulse racing. _Too_.

He could find no words appropriate for the situation, so he simply fixed Remus with an intent look and stalked unsteadily forward until he was scant inches from him. There Harry stood, waiting. _Hoping_. Willing the ambivalent hand to reach out and seize what it so obviously desired and what Harry so blatantly offered.nBut it refused, as he supposed he knew it would. And Harry, impatient, took hold of it by the wrist and gently forced Remus' palm flat against the bare skin of Harry's chest. An invitation. A request.

Remus' inhale was a hiss, his face a riot of conflicting emotions: need and revulsion, desire and horror. He stood stock-still, glaring at the appendage as if it did not belong to him and was no longer under his control. Then carefully, Harry released Remus' wrist. Relief flooded him as, instead of disappearing, the pressure under Remus' palm increased. It was as if Remus were trying to attain as much contact as was possible with just this body part. Harry dared to breathe for perhaps the first time since shedding his cloak.

Remus' eyes closed momentarily as if he were committing the sensation to memory. And then slowly and possessively, the hand slid up toward Harry's neck. Harry threw his head back to accommodate it with an encouraging sigh. Remus gently but meticulously searched its contours, drinking in the sight before running a reverent thumb down the side of Harry's jaw, making Harry shiver. Remus' eyelids fluttered as he found his hand sliding over to Harry's shoulder; parting his robe further to reveal more of Harry that the hand might visit; then down again, splay-fingered, over Harry's pectoral where surely Remus could feel the pounding of Harry's heart.

The look on Remus' face as he explored was the most erotic thing Harry had seen in his entire young life. It was feral, hungry, intense. Nothing like the Remus he knew but exactly as Harry had suspected he could be. His top lip actually curled back slightly, baring his teeth as if he would like nothing more than to take a bite of the young man. Remus had never looked more the wolf than he did in that moment. He bit his bottom lip as his thumb carefully and intentionally grazed Harry's hardening nipple as it passed.

That sent an electric shock through Harry and he gasped, pressing himself into the touch. Tired of being a passive participant, Harry abruptly closed the distance between them, practically launching himself at Remus--who was still immobile save for the rogue hand--and grasping the back of the man's neck to pull his face to Harry's own and press their lips together.

Harry was awkward and inexperienced but decisive. He could feel Remus struggle within himself but refused to relent. And finally, as if some inner levee had been breached, Remus opened his mouth to Harry, pushing past Harry's lips with a ravenous tongue as he brought a hand up to cradle the back of Harry's head, his other hand skating knowledgeably over Harry's torso.

Harry was in raptures. Never had it been like this with Cho. There was nothing timid or soft about this deep plundering of Harry's mouth. Nothing clumsy or hesitant. And it felt _so_ _right_ to Harry. Remus' lips weren't soft and full, didn't mash the kiss into him like plush velvet pillows. Remus' lips carved the kiss from him, so that Harry felt himself slowly and deliciously devoured. He was on fire. Every place where the two touched was a spark, lighting a fuse that led directly to Harry's groin.

And he wanted more. Harry moaned into Remus' mouth and tried to draw him closer, wanting to feel the fullness of him against his skin. But before his arms could close around the man, Remus was suddenly gone. That same hand that had sought to possess him moments ago now held him at arm's length. Harry was momentarily disoriented. He whimpered and reached, tried to reclaim the bliss that had been so suddenly ripped from him. But as he moved forward the hand, too, was suddenly gone and Remus took several stumbling steps back from Harry, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut, and hand still outstretched as if warding off some kind of evil.

“What? What is it?” Harry asked, breathless words slurred through kiss-plumped lips. “Didn't you like it? Remus? Isn't this what you want?” he asked, taking a small step forward and slipping the robe off entirely to pool at his feet, standing in a posture of offering. Remus looked back up at Harry as if coming out of a daze. His lust-clouded eyes cleared as he ran them the length of his ward. Then he shuddered and hid his face in his hands, which muffled the moaned _nonononono_ that streamed from the man's now covered mouth.

Harry was gutted, utterly, unsure if it was Harry Remus was rejecting or if Remus was simply battling his conscience. “Remus, it's okay,” he urged desperately. “I'm of age. I can consent. Don't you...?  _I want this, too_ ,” Harry pleaded, voice cracking under the pressure of his need.

“What have I done?” Remus said in a horrified whisper. He looked at Harry again, standing in nothing but his boxer shorts, which did nothing to conceal Harry's desire, and Remus appeared almost ill. He averted his eyes, seeming determined not to look at Harry again until he had covered the boy's nakedness. But he could find nothing with which to do so besides the discarded robe, which would have required Remus to kneel too close to...

Remus ripped off his own cardigan and draped it over Harry's shoulders, overlapping the front across Harry's chest and forcing Harry to hold it there. Then having covered him, he jerked his hands away and hastily stepped back again to collapse against the arm of the sofa.

“Remus,” Harry said, near to tears from frustration and embarrassment. “ _Please_. Don't do this.”

“I have no intention,” Remus said, almost angrily. He swallowed his ire and looked up at Harry, deep sadness in his golden eyes. “Harry, this is wrong. _So much about this is wrong_. I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry.”

“Don't be!” Harry pleaded, trying to approach him.

“Don't come any closer, Harry!” Remus barked. He shook his head. “You could not possibly think this would...th-that I...” Remus groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face again. “Harry, I think you should leave now,” he said, his voice barely suppressing an emotion Harry could not decipher. He pointed at the door, his eyes falling closed in what could only be shame. He wouldn't even look at Harry as he cast him away, which wounded Harry to the quick but was fortunate, because Harry wouldn't want Remus to see the tears flowing unchecked down his face. Without another word, Harry snatched up his invisibility cloak where he'd abandoned it, threw it on, and bolted clumsily through the door, slamming it behind him. He rushed down the corridor but only managed a few steps before he collapsed against a wall, sliding all the way to the floor, sobbing.

He had known. Of course, he had known. But he had wanted it so _badly_. He still did. Despite his tears, his erection still pulsed inconveniently against his thigh. And for too brief a moment it had seemed possible.

Not just possible but _perfect_.

Harry stayed slumped there outside Remus' door for a long while, until his tears were spent and his desire had faded. He spared only a glancing thought as to how this would affect their lessons--their relationship period--from now on. Accepting that things could never be how he wanted, he wondered now how he could mend this so things could return to how they were. But he did not dwell on it. He couldn't. He was devastated. Empty and bereft and aching.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

He lay, like a discarded doll, limp and lifeless and unloved on the floor, his humiliation charitably covered by his invisibility cloak. He felt he could have laid there unmoving at Remus' doorstep forever...except that Remus' door abruptly opened, and his guardian burst through it and took off down the hall. Harry scrambled to his feet. He wanted to talk to the man. To apologise. To beg. But he didn't know what to say, only that it would not be well received just now. So he simply followed him, trying to work up the courage to speak...until he realised where Remus was headed.

 _No_.

He couldn't. Surely, he wouldn't. But there Remus was, speaking the password, mounting the stairs to Dumbledore's office and climbing them--not riding them--up. And Harry followed, all the way up the stairs and through the door Remus left swinging open behind him as he stumbled toward Dumbledore's desk to profess in a rush to the shocked Headmaster, “Albus. I cannot do this any longer.”

Harry was horror-stricken.

“Cannot do what, exactly?” Dumbledore asked tersely, eyes narrowed. Though, by Remus' dishevelled state and reluctance to meet his eye, Dumbledore seemed to guess at the answer. Remus did not respond. He hung his head, sitting heavily on the arm of the nearest chair. The sight of the tears he spied on Remus' cheek struck Harry like a knife to the heart.

“My feelings for Harry have become...inappropriate. And our time together too intimate,” Remus confessed softly to the floor.

“I see,” Dumbledore said, pulling in a deep, disquieted breath. He eyed Remus critically. “Have you...?”

“No. No!” Remus repeated, horrified, looking the Headmaster in the eye for the first time upon understanding the unspoken part of Dumbledore's question. “No, but I...” He swallowed and wet his lips nervously. “I no longer trust myself to behave professionally,” he admitted, eyes drifting away again as if they couldn't bear the condemnation they found in the Headmaster's.

“Have you made advances?” Dumbledore's voice was low and almost dangerous.

Remus quickly shook his head. “Albus, I _swear_ -”

“So it was him?”

Remus didn't answer, only squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to exorcise the memory of what had just happened. Which hurt Harry more than anything else so far. Harry would never forget. Would never want to.

Dumbledore nodded his solemn understanding. “We knew there would be complications when the spell broke,” he sighed. “I'm almost surprised some issue did not arise before now.” Again, this reference to some spell Harry didn't understand. But its importance paled in comparison to the tragedy playing out before him. “Though I confess I never suspected this particular scenario. Of course, these impulses are only natural for a boy his age,” Dumbledore reasoned, trying perhaps to comfort himself and not necessarily Remus. “And you are only human, after all, Remus.” There was no denying the Headmaster was highly uncomfortable. “However, I admit to finding myself deeply disappointed by this turn of events.”

“I'm returning to Grimmauld Place,” Remus said, thoroughly defeated. “I'll leave tonight. I'm not sure there was much else of real value I could have taught him anyway.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore acceded sadly.

Remus stood but hesitated to go. He darted a glance toward the Headmaster, looking as if he wanted to speak; to explain, to say something, anything, to redeem himself to Dumbledore. But there really was nothing to say besides, “I am sorry, Albus.”

“As am I,” he replied quietly. Remus turned and trudged gravely toward the still open doorway as if to his own beheading when Dumbledore spoke again. “Harry. If you would be so kind as to remain behind, I'd like to have a word with you.”

Harry's eyes widened beneath his cloak and he wondered what he did to give himself away. He pulled the fabric from his head, but it was to Remus that he looked, not Dumbledore. Remus seemed mortified to discover that Harry had been present to witness his admission, his disgrace, and he strode through the door with a look of deep hurt on his face. Without a word, Harry followed.

“Harry,” Dumbledore warned sternly. When Harry ignored him, he rose from his seat and bellowed, “Harry James Potter, come _back_ here!” But Harry couldn't have cared less about incurring the Headmaster's wrath. The only thing Harry cared about--the only thing he had left _to_ care about--was literally running away from him, and he rushed desperately to follow, catching Remus by the arm before he reached the foot of the stair.

“Remus, _you can't go_ ,” he said plaintively, finding it difficult to breathe.

Angrily, “Harry, I will not have this conversation with you.” Then, more anxiously, his eyes searching the stone walls around them, “Maybe...if I was a better man...”

“You're the best man I know,” Harry said, his voice small and broken, a reflection of how Harry felt at that moment.

“It's too late, Harry,” Remus said, almost in tears himself, removing Harry's hand from his arm. “The damage has been done.”

“What damage? I'm old enough to decide. _Have_ decided. And you aren't my professor.”

“No. I'm your guardian,” Remus sneered bitterly, hating himself.

“Bollocks. Who cares?” Harry demanded but panicked as Remus began to turn away, adding in a rush, “Look, I'm sorry. Remus? I'm sorry. I was wrong. _Please_. I just...I want...Just _stay,”_ he wept.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Remus whispered with more aching and regret than the three fragile words should have been capable of carrying. And with that, Remus walked away. Harry watched him go, on the verge of hyperventilating, feeling like the very stones of Hogwarts were crumbling around him. Harry's safe-haven, his bastion, his _home_ , was leaving him. _Abandoning_ him.

“But you said you'd always be here!” Harry shouted tearfully at Remus' retreating back. It was a challenge, a reproach, an entreaty. Remus paused but did not turn around. “You can't make a promise like that and just run away. You _coward!_ ” Harry sobbed, wanting to take it back even as it passed his lips, wanting to beg but knowing it was futile. Let it stand, then, if nothing could make this better, if nothing could make it worse. What did it matter? What did anything matter now?

Remus looked over his shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, and Harry held his breath, strained his ear. But in the end, Remus simply shook his head and continued on, leaving Harry a trembling mess on the Headmaster's doorstep.


	31. Or Lose Your Heart, Or Your Chaste Treasure Open

Dumbledore had the grace to allow Harry a moment to grieve. The young man noticed his presence but did not acknowledge it. He was tired of this tableau. He was tired of being in emotional shreds in Dumbledore's office. It was as if the place had been re-designated solely for that purpose.

“Let us talk, Harry,” Dumbledore finally proposed, not without kindness but Harry could still hear the mild anger and disappointment in his voice. When Harry didn't move, Dumbledore gently but firmly helped him to his feet, after which Harry followed him back up the steps with no argument. Dumbledore closed and locked the door behind them to ensure no unexpected interruptions. Harry still wore his cloak, but perhaps Dumbledore was unsure of his state of decency underneath. Realising that he wore only his boxers and Remus' cardigan made Harry blush slightly, but really, he was beyond any real shame. He just didn't have any left to spare.

Instead of returning to his desk, Dumbledore took the armchair opposite Harry and the two sat in silence for a while, both mulling over what had just happened.

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, tugging absently at his earlobe as he gathered his thoughts. “You may not believe that I understand what you're going through at the moment, but I do.” His manner was more informal than it had ever been, as if he wanted to convey they were in this together and this was meant to be a conversation instead of a lecture. It showed respect, which Harry appreciated but wasn't certain he deserved at this point. Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I'm not going to try to invalidate your feelings. However, while I do not wish you to suppress them, I'd like you to consider less impulsive and destructive ways of expressing them.” Harry did not respond. He did not look at Dumbledore or give any sign that he was aware he was speaking, though if it bothered the Headmaster, he gave no indication. “What I need you to understand, to keep in mind, is that you are not the only person still grieving lost loved ones.” Harry ducked his head but did not otherwise respond.

“Harry, though your feelings toward one another may be genuine, Remus, at least, understands that they are inappropriate, and what you did tonight was both unfair and ill-considered. I'm aware that you did not spend much time in their company when they were together, but Sirius and Remus cared very deeply for one another. And while you may not have knowingly take advantage of Remus' vulnerability, your actions nonetheless wounded an already fragile man.”

Harry finally lifted his eyes to Dumbledore's. Harry hadn't considered it that way. He had only considered what he wanted, because the want had been so new to him. He had only considered how to break through Remus' defences, not whether he should. His tears were still close at hand, and now they reappeared, trickling alternately down Harry's cheeks. The last thing he had wanted was to hurt Remus. He had wanted to bring him comfort and happiness and release. But he saw now the desire had been selfish and the privilege not his to claim.

“I never meant...” he began, but couldn't summon the rest, instead wiping this nose on his cloak noisily and unselfconsciously.

“I know,” Dumbledore said. “But sometimes we see only our motivations and not the consequences of the actions they inspire.”

Snape had said almost the exact same thing to him once, but listening to that advice hadn't helped him then. It had only caused him to alienate his friends. Why was it that every choice Harry made seemed to be the wrong one?

“I'm afraid, in light of what has happened, I'll have to ask that you relinquish your invisibility cloak to me, Harry. Until such time as I feel I can trust you to use it again wisely.” Harry's distress must have been evident, because Dumbledore added, “I want you to understand that this is not a punishment, Harry, but rather a consequence, and it is for your own safety that I request it.”

Harry took a deep, resigned breath and nodded, though of course did not move to comply.

“Am I correct in assuming that your attire beneath is not suitable for returning to your dormitory?” Dumbledore asked uncomfortably but without condemnation. Harry's cheeks coloured and he nodded sheepishly. “Very well. I will escort you then, and you can hand it over once we arrive.”

Those were the last words that were spoken that night. At the Portrait Hole, Harry reluctantly shrugged off his cloak and passed it to Dumbledore, hugging Remus' cardigan more tightly around him. Dumbledore only nodded and withdrew.

Harry did not remove the cardigan before crawling into bed. He didn't allow himself to think much about the night's events, either. He simply clung to what he had left of Remus, occasionally tugging on the lapel to pull the collar to where he could breathe in Remus' scent where the fabric had rubbed against the back of his neck. He had nothing else left. No Remus, no Ron, no Hermione, no Sirius. He'd lost his home, his Firebolt, and his father's invisibility cloak and the photo album Hagrid had given him. And now he'd lost Sirius' cloak, as well...along with Dumbledore's trust. Harry had never felt more the orphan than he did at that moment; more so even than he had when locked in the Dursleys' cupboard. He hadn't really known what he'd lost then. But he knew it now.

But maybe he hadn't lost everything, after all. Harry rolled out of bed and knelt by his bedside table, reaching a hand to feel along the underside. The sticking charm had begun to wear off already, and he peeled The Marauder's Map easily from the wood without damaging it. He'd hidden it there the year before to ensure it did not accidentally fall into Umbridge's hands and had forgotten about it after the incident at the Ministry.

He stroked the Map fondly. What a tragedy it would have been if it had been destroyed by his uncle along with all his other things. It was such a marvel, such an ingenious application of really impressive magic and a testament to the depth of Sirius' and his father's friendship with Remus. All this, and the effort and discipline required to become Animagi at such young ages, all for the sake of comforting their afflicted friend.

Harry was glad. Glad to know his father had been capable of such things, that all of them would go to such lengths. Harry was glad Remus had been loved so well. He hoped he knew he was loved still.

Harry carried his treasure back to bed and unfolded it. Just saying the whimsical password made him feel lighter. Unhurriedly, he located Remus' quarters, noting with a pang that Remus' dot had already disappeared from the map. Perhaps forever.

He took his time combing the rest of the castle. Hermione was not in Gryffindor Tower. Harry was reluctant but could not resist searching for her. He finally located her in a classroom near the dungeons, tasting bile but forcing himself to accept he had relinquished the right to criticise anyone else's choices when he had made his own to visit Remus that night. Draco was there as well but, to Harry's relief, he was several paces away from Hermione. The dots shifted but did not draw any closer. It seemed they were simply talking. And if that's what Hermione needed right now, and she wanted to seek it from Draco, then Harry wished her well. It didn't please him, but he was grateful someone was there for her, even if the fact that that someone was Draco still galled him.

Snape was in his quarters, deep in the dungeons, which were vaguely defined when at all. It seemed the Marauders didn't fancy mapping them enough to risk becoming lost in them, and perhaps they hadn't seen much use in it anyway. Harry noted there were a couple of similar regions that were ill-defined, as well, but nowhere especially important.

Harry returned to Snape. Despite the hour, he was not in his bedroom. According to Dumbledore, he wasn't fond of sleep. Or, it wasn't fond of him. Harry wondered how often Snape actually used the little room with which Harry'd become so well acquainted that week he'd occupied it. It seemed strange, knowing he'd slept in Snape's bed. But not so strange that Harry didn't feel a slight yearning to return to it, to roll back the clock to a time when he hadn't so hopelessly screwed everything up with everyone he loved.

Not far away on the map was the Potions classroom, and not far from that was Cobbleshot's. Who, he noted, was not in her quarters. Harry searched for her. He hadn't given her much thought lately, but she was definitely a mystery. He had almost completely forgotten about seeing Snape hand her the vial of potion. Harry felt he knew which one it might be but reserved judgement until he was certain. She didn't seem to be anywhere. Harry really needed to devise a spell that allowed him to locate people on the Map.

Then he found her. But not in the castle. Harry hadn't realized the map worked beyond the castle walls, but it did indeed seem to extend a ways into the grounds, as well. Perhaps it was necessary to see if anyone was using the secret tunnels. But there were no tunnels where Harry saw Cobbleshot. It looked as if she was returning from the Forbidden Forest. Had she been on an errand for Dumbledore? She must have a Hall Pass, as he watched her pass back into the castle without slowing.

A realisation hit him which almost made him gasp. He did drop the Map.

_A Hall Pass._

Harry patted his... _Remus_ '...cardigan pockets. They were deep and large. And they weren't empty. Harry reached inside one and was both surprised and pleased to discover it contained Remus' Hall Pass still. He thought of returning it to Dumbledore as a sign of good faith, as really, it would surely be only a matter of time before someone came looking for it. But he decided to wait. He liked knowing that if it came to it, he could escape.

Harry gave a joyless laugh at that. He could escape to where? The Forbidden Forest? Though, if matters became much worse here, that might not be a terrible option. Whatever the reason, he knew he was going to keep the Pass. Besides, it reminded him of their picnic by the Lake, back when things were still okay, when they had actually seemed like they were improving. He adhered the Pass to the underside of his nightstand as he had the Map before it.

A more thorough search of Remus' pockets revealed a used tissue, a stub of artist's charcoal, two Rumdoodles, and a scrap of paper. Harry unfolded it and saw that it was the map. Not 'The Map', of course, but the map Snape had sketched for them when Remus had fetched him from the dungeons. Harry wanted to remember that walk but didn't at the same time. He was too tired and heartsore for any more thoughts like that tonight.

He returned everything he'd found to the pockets, even the used tissue, and closed the front of the cardigan over his bare skin, savouring even the scratchy bits where the seams were starting to fray. And though he still felt gutted, still ached over the mistakes he'd made, Harry drifted off to sleep feeling much richer than he had just an hour before.


	32. With All My Heart, And it Doth Much Content Me

Harry didn't get out of bed the next morning. He'd dreamt of Remus again, this time being allowed to keep all those details that had faded with waking before. And while on any other day that would have started things off perfectly, this morning it reopened a wound.

Worse; it inflicted a new one.

Apparently, he still had a few tears left to spend, and he was grateful that Neville was the only person he needed to hide them from, and then only until the boy left for breakfast.

Harry skipped breakfast. And lunch. By dinner, he was hungry enough consider venturing out, but not enough to expend the effort of actually doing it. In the end, he simply wrapped up in his cardigan again and decided to take nap number...he'd lost count. Or they'd blurred together. It was all the same to Harry.

He'd barely managed to doze off when his slumber was interrupted by Neville, talking to him in an urgent whisper just beyond his curtains. “Wh-whatsit?” Harry mumbled sleepily.

“ _He's coming!_ ” Neville whispered, some commotion going on behind him.

“Who's coming?” Harry asked, groggy and irritable. “Neville, what are you on-”

At just that moment, Harry's bed hangings were ripped back by Professor Snape, who was wearing an expression like distant thunder. Harry scrambled upright, suddenly awake, covering as much of himself as the mousy-brown knit garment he wore would allow. Harry's mouth worked, striving to voice his indignation, but no words would come out. He'd never expected to see Snape in this place, or to be seen by him this way: tear-stained and bleary-eyed and practically naked. Snape glared at him.

“Longbottom. Out.”

Neville didn't need to be told twice. Harry could hear his frantic footsteps recede down the stairs.

Snape eyed Harry's pitiful state with a disgusted, condescending curl of his lips. “Did you assume, because you were feeling sulky today, that it was somehow okay for you to skip your detention this evening, Mr. Potter?” he asked coolly. Harry pouted outright. He had completely forgotten about his detention. It wasn't as if he'd skipped it intentionally. Still, he would have thought McGonagall, at least, would have been sent to fetch him if necessary. He wondered vaguely if she even knew Snape was here.

“Have you so thoroughly steeped in your self-pity that it has yet to drain from your ears? Or has it turned what little brains you have to maudlin soup? My meaning was that you should get the hell out of _bed_ ,” Snape growled. He strode to Harry's trunk and grabbed the first things his hands fell on, throwing them at Harry. “And for gods' sake, put on some bloody clothes, Potter.” Then he returned to where Harry was huddled and unceremoniously stripped the cardigan from his back, sneering at Harry's resulting cry of anguish. Though thankfully, he tossed it back onto the mattress once Harry was free of it.

Even though Harry was very naked and very uncomfortably aware that he was so--in front of Snape of all people--he was slow to reach for the clothes offered him. The results of Snape's rummaging consisted of a loud, purple 'Weird Sisters' t-shirt and bleedingly red tartan trousers. (Who the hell had thought it was a good idea to buy him tartan trousers? He shuddered when he realised they even sported bondage straps. Did people even still wear these things? Harry had a sneaking suspicion Mrs. Weasley had scented a bargain.)

“Clothes, Potter. _Now_ ,” Snape ordered. Harry didn't dare argue. Though, to his mortal embarrassment, he almost began crying again. He'd thought last night had been the height of humiliation, but this was different. This felt more like a violation. Stifling his sobs into bitter hiccups, Harry slipped into the hideous combination of clothes.

“Shoes,” Snape demanded. Harry stuffed his feet into his trainers without socks and, before his second foot was even properly in, Snape gave him a small shove in the direction of the door.

“Dungeons.”

Cursing inwardly and at length, Harry was paraded through a tragically full Common Room, hair sticking in all directions, puffy-eyed, and looking like a dated-punk-rock court jester, complete with little jingles as he walked. He received additional nudges from Snape whenever the man seemed to feel Harry wasn't moving fast enough, more than once causing him to stumble. At least his _cheeks_ matched his trousers. He was sure he'd never blushed so hard in his life. He would never, ever live this down, and once they were in the corridors Harry's humiliation shifted to make room for his temper, eventually loosening his tongue.

“That wasn't necessary, you know,” he spat sniffily at Snape as they made their way to the dungeons. “I'd forgotten, is all! Why do you _always_ have to be _so_...”

“So _what_ , Harry?” Snape clipped, turning sharply into his offices and shutting the door once the young man was through. Harry literally bit his tongue. “Go on. Tell me how I am,” he challenged calmly. Was Harry just imagining the dangerous edge to his voice? He didn't particularly want to find out. He ground his teeth and stared at the floor. Snape heaved a sigh, seemingly frustrated that Harry did not rise to his bait. “Harry, what have you been doing here these past three days?”

“Serving detention, Sir,” Harry answered tightly, which somehow only succeeded in agitating Snape more.

“No _,_ ” he frowned, speaking to Harry as if to a small child. “That is why you were here. What have you been _doing?_ ”

Harry shifted his weight wearily with a sigh and rubbed his scowling forehead. He didn't want to be here. He didn't know what Snape wanted from him. “Scrubbing cauldrons!” he huffed.

Snape reflected Harry's exasperation back at him. “Yes, but _while_ you scrubbed cauldrons...What. Were. You. Doing?”

“I, um...uh,” Harry stammered, staring at Snape in confusion. He shrugged and shook his head. “I was  _thinking?_ ” he offered finally.

“ _Exactly_ , Potter,” Snape replied stiffly. “Which means you were doing things  _incorrectly_.” Snape turned his back on Harry and strode to the hearth, tossing a handful of floo powder into it. “Severus Snape's private quarters,” he intoned, looking expectantly at Harry who just stood there, lost. “Sometime today, Potter,” Snape said, gesturing tersely toward the floo. Harry shook off his confusion and did as he was directed, soon finding himself in a place he never expected to ever see again.

Though the mystery room had consumed his thoughts for so long, Harry's gaze went instead to Snape's bedroom door which was slightly ajar. He had the sudden urge to go through it, to throw himself back onto the firm, narrow mattress and never come out again. He wondered why he'd ever come out in the first place, then he reflected on how pitiful it was that such a dark and terrible time seemed more preferable to him now than his present situation.

Snape flooed in behind him and saw Harry staring, wistful and dejected, at the tiny cell. Harry was bashful to realise he'd been caught but, inexplicably, something in Snape's expression seemed to soften. “This way, Harry,” he said with much less irritation than a moment ago.

It hadn't dawned on Harry to wonder why they'd come here until he saw Snape walk over to the mysterious doorway and wave his wand, resulting in a series of clicks and rattles on the other side. Harry was speechless. Snape, it seemed, was taking Harry through The Locked Door. Anything the man guarded so well must be extremely private, and the trust exhibited by Snape's allowing Harry to enter it instantly humbled him. It also frightened him a little.

On the other side of the door were steps, many of them, spiralling to a lower floor. Apprehensively, Harry drifted down them behind Snape, noticing the metallic, chemical, slightly rotten-sweet tang of a Potions laboratory before he saw the surprisingly large chamber itself. The light within was dim, but as soon as his foot left the last step, Snape waved his wand and a series of torches along the walls flared to life. 

Harry was awed. Snape's equipment was vast and intricate. Everywhere Harry looked there were flasks and bottles and beakers and tubes, resting in elaborate stands or sitting over flames of various height, percolating and dripping and smoking. Their vast complexities seemed proof of the depth of Snape's skill and expertise, and of his patience and attention to detail. Harry looked at Snape with a new respect. He almost felt as if a five star gourmet chef had deigned to teach him how to make mud pies all these years. No wonder the man got so irritated when his students stumbled over something he must find elementary in the extreme.

Various tools were hung along the walls in a hyper-organized manner. Shelves were stocked to capacity with jars of neatly labelled ingredients. There was a large, spotless sink, a desk covered in stacks of parchment (themselves covered in formulas), and in the corner, almost completely hidden by Snape's various projects, was a small cot. One door led from the room, and Harry recognised it to be a bathroom, complete with a small shower. Well, that explained the rusty taps and dust covering everything upstairs, and also Snape's ability to donate his official bedroom for several days.

Harry wandered into this sparkling wonderland of glass and smoke and stink, turning as he went to try and take it all in. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't quiet, either. There were quiet burbles and drips and pops all around. It was a little overwhelming, but almost hypnotic. If he'd thought the rooms upstairs were classically Snape, this place was even more so: a hidden space below the plain exterior, larger than expected, continuously stewing with half a dozen projects while the world outside had no inkling whatsoever of its contents.

“If you're quite done sightseeing, we are here for a purpose, Harry,” Snape said dryly.

“What's that?” Harry asked. He hadn't been able to help himself. He almost felt as if he'd wandered into Willy Wonka's workshop. He was pointing at an orange liquid, following as it progressed through a three-foot-long Mad Scientist's obstacle course to come out the other side a dark purple. It smelled fruity and sweet enough to drink, though no doubt that would have been inadvisable.

“ _That_ is not why we are here,” Snape replied irritably. Harry straightened with a sigh. He hadn't forgotten his own irritation or his heartbreak, but he still felt the impulse to quiz Snape about everything in the room.

“You are too easily distracted,” Snape said. Though, Harry thought he could tell the man was secretly gratified by Harry's interest, as his tone was only superficially caustic. In fact, compared to how he usually spoke to Harry, Snape sounded damned near friendly. “That, however, _is_ one of the reasons we are here. Sink, Harry.”

Harry groaned inwardly. Was he really just here to scrub pots? Why bother bringing him somewhere fascinating if he wasn't allowed to be curious and, well, fascinated? Or as Snape might have put it, nosy and bothersome. He trudged over, waiting as the Potions Master extricated a large tub of dirty, residue-caked equipment from beneath one of his workbenches before setting it next to the sink before Harry. But when Harry reached for the cleaning tools, Snape surprised him by pushing back his sleeves and taking up some of his own. Since Harry held the bottle-brush, Snape handed him something appropriate to clean with it. Then he also selected a dirty item of his own, working side-by-side with Harry for a while without speaking.

Harry went with it, but he couldn't help throwing Snape curious, sidelong glances, watching as the man meticulously de-gunked one beaker then another.

“Do you know why I like potions, Harry?” Snape asked suddenly but quietly, startling Harry into almost dropping the phial he was cleaning. Snape's face was impassive and he never looked up from his task. “They require attention. Some require even constant attention, so much so that one does not have the luxury of extraneous thoughts.” Harry had never heard the man's voice so even. It was as if their exercise put him at ease. “Can you imagine why this appeals to me?”

Harry could imagine, but he did not feel it was appropriate to answer. He considered what Snape had just said as he scrubbed, not noticing that his phial had been clean for some time.

“You see, this is exactly your problem,” Snape said with a sigh, taking it from him carefully and replacing it with another dirty one. He finally looked at Harry. “There are essentially two kinds of meditation, Harry. Directive and non-directive. There is the kind where one focuses inwardly and the kind where one focuses outwardly,” he explained. Harry was a little weirded out and did not doubt it showed in his expression. Snape actually sounded like a teacher. Was actually patiently explaining a concept instead of beating Harry over the head with it. And while that should have been comforting, it was so out of character for the man that it was anything but.

“What you seem to have been doing,” Snape continued, “even accidentally, is the wrong kind. You've focused your physical self on an action or object, allowing your mind to wander. But this is dangerous. While your attention is elsewhere, you're inadvertently making room for the Dark Lord.” Snape went back to scrubbing. “What we want to cultivate is the opposite. It's a Zen concept called mindfulness in which you do one thing, focusing all your attention on it.

“Harry, what question have I asked you each night before releasing you?”

Harry had actually been completely focused on Snape at the time and, being put suddenly on the spot, he stammered. “Uh...You asked me if it felt like punishment.”

“And each night you answered that, yes, it had felt like punishment. But what I was trying to offer you, Harry, was an opportunity. Sometimes, the nature of a thing is dependent on how we perceive it.”

Harry stared at Snape, phial and brush forgotten. Snape was saying that making Harry scrub cauldrons had been a charitable gesture. Watching the contentment on Snape's face as he worked now, Harry supposed he must have really considered it so. It was strange. He would never have pegged Snape as a Zen Master. Though apparently, that talent did not extend beyond the cross-beam on the door upstairs.

“Don't look at me like that,” Snape said, still not looking at Harry, his scowl and some of his irritation returning. “I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be _open-minded_.” Snape set aside his now-clean flask and turned to him. “Try this, Harry,” he said seriously, resting his hip against the sink and crossing his arms. “Trust me." He gave Harry a long, pensive look. "You let your emotions rule you. You let circumstance rob you. You live solely in the past and the future. And while that is sometimes necessary...while the past often deserves the respect of acknowledgement and the future requires forethought and preparation...if you can learn to be _here_ , in the present moment, you might not only quiet your demons but also protect yourself from unwanted intrusion. When you are completely present within yourself, there is no room for the Dark Lord to enter.”

And then it clicked. “Occlumency,” Harry said wonderingly. “This...this hasn't been detention. This has been Occlumency.” 

Snape gave him a wry smile and withdrew to his desk, leaving Harry to see to the rest of the tub. Harry did as Snape told him, trying to focus on nothing but his brush and beaker. It was a simple enough concept, but it was far easier said than done. All sorts of things vied for his attention: the sounds of bubbling potions, his new, odd feelings towards this different version of Snape, and of course the ever-present pain of losing Remus. But with some effort, Harry managed to push them gradually aside. Instead of fighting to keep them out, he met each intrusive thought as it came and gently sent it on its way, eventually seeing nothing but the brush in his hand and feeling nothing but the coolness of the glass beneath his fingers.

And Snape was right. It was amazingly freeing. His mind cleared and, even though it was so mundane, the task itself became enormously rewarding. Before he knew it, he had cleaned the entire contents of the tub. He stepped back and regarded the results with satisfaction.

“So, Harry,” Snape said, head still bent to his work. “Did this feel like punishment?”

“No, Professor,” he replied with no hesitation, as if the response surprised him. Snape lay down his quill and regarded him.

“Good,” he said simply. Then he escorted Harry back to the hearth and, from there, sent him directly to Gryffindor Tower where Harry dropped onto the couch, forgetting his costume and his inner-conflict, and wondered on the fact that Snape might not be a complete git after all.


	33. Why This Same Strict and Most Observant Watch

Harry lazed on the couch in quiet contemplation until his empty stomach started to complain so loudly that Harry couldn't ignore it any longer. He realised he hadn't eaten since before dinner the night before, and while he still didn't have much of an appetite, he figured he should force something down anyway.

He no longer had his invisibility cloak, but he still went upstairs. Remus' cardigan lay where Snape had tossed it, and Harry gently picked it up. For a moment he simply stood there, feeling the texture of it in his hands. A part of him wished he could return it to Remus, if only to have the opportunity to see him once again, however briefly. Harry's chest tightened, but he refused to give in to more tears. He lifted the garment to his face and inhaled a deep breath of Remus' scent while it still lingered. It smelled of wood smoke and dust, unfragranced soap and musty parchment. Harry smiled to himself and slipped it on, feeling instantly comforted, as if Remus himself embraced him. Then he pulled the Marauder's Map from under his pillow and set off for the kitchens.

His cloak had caused him to develop the habit of navigating the corridors more boldly than was wise, and he did so now despite his lack of invisibility. Having the Map was a comforting safeguard, and he checked it just often enough to be sure he wasn't walking into anything unexpected at each turn. Harry wasn't particularly concerned. He knew he shouldn't feel as though he were above the rules, but he did. Because really, he was. He was the Chosen One. What were they going to do? Expel him? And if they did, would they send him to Grimmauld Place? Harry quashed that thought. It wasn't that he was looking to get into trouble, he just didn't particularly care one way or the other anymore.

The House Elves were more than happy to ply him with food, and their cheerfulness and solicitous demeanour resulted in Harry finding himself uncomfortably full despite himself. He couldn't stomach their cheerfulness for long, though, as he couldn't return it properly. Now that his brush and beakers no longer occupied him, his melancholy crept back in. Though he'd eaten his fill, everything had rather tasted like dust. It was as if his body had sentenced him to forgo all comfort and pleasure for the crime he'd committed, perhaps until Harry could be convinced it had really been a crime. He thanked the Elves for their kindness and left, not quite discontent but not satisfied, either.

It was sure to not make matters better, however, he couldn't help himself from taking a detour on his way back. Though the Map had clearly shown Remus' quarters to be empty the last time he opened it, he knocked lightly anyway. He hadn't expected an answer, but that didn't stop him from laying his forehead against the wood, trying not to drown in his disappointment. There was magic and then there were miracles, and the latter seemed in short supply.

For the first time since Remus' exodus, Harry allowed himself to remember that brief moment of perfection. He leaned his back against Remus' door and relived it in detail, right up to the point when Remus had pushed him away. He didn't want that part--or what came after. He only wanted the memory of hands and lips and breath and tongues. It felt, in so many ways, as if it had been his first kiss; as if the others were so clumsy and inexperienced and unsatisfying they hadn't counted. He carried the memory with him as, with a longing sigh, he reluctantly took his leave of the place and the person that had been his sanctuary.

Suddenly, returning to Gryffindor Tower was urgent, but when he heard movement behind a wall hanging further down the corridor, he slowed. Remembering his uncustomary visibility, Harry hugged the opposite wall, pulling out the Map for the first time since leaving the kitchens. It revealed a small alcove was hidden behind the hanging in question, and two unfamiliar dots jostled together there.

Just some secret, late-night snog, then. Harry was about to put the Map away and continue on to take care of his...problem...when he realised both the dots had had boy's names attached to them. Harry's problem abruptly became worse, but he didn't move.

It stood to reason, but somehow it still surprised Harry that there were others _like him_ at Hogwarts. But then, he hadn't decided he _was_...that way. Though, now he saw an opportunity, perhaps, to put it to the test. The possibility caused his pulse to quicken. He wasn't sure if it was from fear or anticipation. Regardless, it was purely theoretical at the moment. He looked more closely at the Map.

Eric Conners and David Clegg. Harry was disappointed to realise neither name was familiar to him. He wouldn't know them if he saw them in the Great Hall. And even if he did, what exactly was he supposed to do then? Walk up and explain that he suspected he may be gay, but wasn't sure, and so could they maybe snog?

Harry felt like pulling out his hair. He'd rather navigate a deadly, booby-trapped dungeon than attempt to grope his way through this strange and confusing labyrinth that was courtship. He'd never even managed to master the usual kind, and he had a strong feeling that, before he managed to find a willing bloke, he'd acquire at least one fat lip.

Then he realised the two might even be boyfriends, might be exclusive, and that it was rude and wrong-headed to assume that just because a boy was interested in other boys that that meant they were interested in any and all boys. Harry couldn't just mention his own interest and expect it to be reciprocated.

He also realised that he was probably inappropriately close to their hiding place, and though it had been unintentional, he seemed to be eavesdropping. Harry knew he should move on, but he couldn't seem to convince his feet to move. The sounds coming from behind the tapestry had become more passionate, with little, stifled moans and gasps. Both were in a lower register, and something about that observation caused the stirring in Harry's still-hideous trousers to reach a point that was almost painful. He blushed, hearing whispered words of encouragement from the nook now and a groan and then a low, slow moan. Harry's imagination became suddenly untethered. Though he didn't know their faces, he had ample ideas about what they were presently doing, and it probably entailed all those things he'd hoped to do with Remus. At least for starters. And maybe beyond.

Harry noticed he was breathing heavily and tried to calm himself. He would _not_ wank in plain sight in the corridors. But the urge was strong. He closed his eyes, trying to tamp down his arousal, the effort causing a light sheen of sweat to form on his brow...when he noticed the halls were suddenly quiet.

Harry panicked. He quietly tucked himself behind a suit of armour decorating the corridor. It didn't even begin to really conceal him, but it was the only thing around. As he watched (and he couldn't help but watch) a slight boy with short, chocolate curls slipped from behind the drapery and headed stealthily down the hall. He was followed out of the alcove by an older boy with impossibly thick, straight, blond hair who stepped rather boldly into the corridor and watched the other boy leave with a fond, satisfied expression. Harry somewhat forgot the necessity of hiding, being almost drawn to the boy. He was handsome, with a wholesome, friendly face which was still flushed from his recent activities. The observation made Harry blush himself, from embarrassment and his damned stubborn arousal.

Then, as if he had already known Harry was there, the boy turned and looked straight at him. Harry didn't dare breathe, much less speak. The other boy didn't duck and hide, didn't seem to fear being caught. He simply regarded Harry, slightly surprised at first, and then, perhaps reading something in Harry's expression, he slipped into a knowing smile. Harry gulped. But then the boy just winked at Harry before strolling off down the corridor, leaving Harry frozen where he stood, watching him go. The second he was sure he wouldn't be noticed, Harry pulled out his Map. _Eric Conners._ He didn't think he was going to be forgetting that name anytime soon. He gave both boys plenty of time to clear off and then quickly made his way to his own rooms, spending quite some time after he arrived thinking inappropriate things involving thick, blond hair.

Harry scanned the Great Hall the next morning, not quite wanting to admit to himself what he was looking for and why, but there was no sign of Eric and his hair. He did spy Hermione, though. She and Draco sat at the far end of the Hall, backs turned to the tables so they could chat across the aisle. Draco had his plate in his lap, eating while Hermione talked.

Harry sighed, bothered still but coming slowly to terms. He couldn't keep the scowl from his face as he watched them, though. Hermione was talking animatedly about something when she caught sight of Harry, his petulant expression instantly dampening her enthusiasm. He watched as she noticed Harry was wearing Remus' cardigan. She was, perhaps, the only person who would make the connection. Troubled, she started to rise as if she wanted to come talk to him, but Draco placed a hand on her arm, shaking his head and talking her into sitting back down. Reluctantly, but with a small smile, she turned her attention back to Draco.

Harry thought he might actually have growled he was so irritated. How dare the fickle little prick prevent Hermione from coming to talk to Harry. Blast it, they were best friends! And this little stumbling block would not change that. Harry resolved to find a way to talk to Hermione later when the slick git was not around.

He was still glowering at Malfoy when Luna set a Quibbler in front of him without a word. He tried thanking her belatedly but wasn't sure she had heard him. Harry perused the paper distractedly. Then he recalled the personals ads and turned to them.

It was a crazy thought, but for a moment he fancied placing a submission in Luna's box. He sneered at himself. Just what would it say? 'Teenaged boy saviour seeking gay werewolf'? Granted, it would fit in just fine with the existing ads. Harry noticed Ol' Shotty was still at it, trying to convince the object of his affections to meet him under the full moon.

Harry lay the paper aside and had just decided to tuck into his breakfast when a shadow fell over his plate. He turned, ready to tell off whoever was about to try to start something with him, only to find, to his surprise, it was Professor Snape.

Harry still hadn't worked out how he felt towards the man now. True, they _had_ seemed to come to some sort of understanding the night before, which was exactly what Harry'd been hoping to do for a while. But that didn't change the fact that it happened only _after_ Snape had literally dragged him out of bed and shoved him through the Common Room in clothes he wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in. The offence was so great it just almost cancelled everything else out. Harry felt...kind of indifferent, actually. Which was a much calmer reaction to the man's presence than Harry was accustomed to.

“Professor,” Harry greeted politely.

“Potter,” Snape returned, eyeing Harry's cardigan. He wasn't sure how much Snape knew about what had happened, but Harry was unashamed and practically willed the man to comment. “I merely wanted to inform you that you no longer need to forgo dinner before reporting to my office.”

“We're still doing that, then?” Harry said, almost to himself. Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Did you assume that one small step had made you a master? Oh, of course, you did. I must have forgotten to whom I was speaking,” Snape muttered. “There is also the small matter of Mister Malfoy's nose having been broken. I realise you spend an inordinate amount of your time breaking things, Mister Potter, but that one, at least, I was witness to and intend to see you punished for.”

“I thought you said it wasn't detention?” Harry said, but not argumentatively. He was mildly surprised to find he was almost immune to Snape's barbs now.

“I had said that it is up to you whether you _perceive_ it as punishment, but yes, it is still detention, Harry, and I expect your presence after dinner for the foreseeable future. Are we clear?” he said firmly.

Harry actually shrugged. “Yeah, alright. After dinner,” he said, as if they'd just made plans to meet up at the pub or something.

Snape looked discomfited by Harry's casual lack of attitude. But it wasn't as if Harry'd done or said anything he could criticise. He wasn't even throwing the man dirty looks. Snape did not seem to have expected Harry to be agreeable and wasn't certain, perhaps, how he felt about it. “Very well,” he said finally, stalking to the Staff table with a slightly bewildered scowl.

Hermione no longer sat with Harry in class, either, but he wasn't too upset by it. He wanted to be able to have an actual conversation with her, and her nearness without the liberty of privacy would only have been a frustrating distraction. In Defence Against the Dark Arts, he allowed Hermione to retain her spot at the back and occupied one of the many empty spaces in the front. He wasn't just being charitable. He wanted a closer look at Cobbleshot and an excuse to examine her without needing to be covert. So, Harry decided he was now her very attentive student. 

She appeared after everyone had been seated, running a hand across Harry's shoulders as she passed him in a gesture that could easily have been interpreted as inappropriate. “Severus tells me we're allowed to spend some time alone together now, Little Harry,” she breathed in his ear, making him decidedly uncomfortable. Her smile as she took her place at the front of the class was almost lecherous. He could already hear the whispers behind him. No one could have heard, but she wasn't being subtle in her attentions. Harry didn't particularly care, but it was still annoying.

The class was not as tantalising as the last ones had been. She simply spoke more on the concept of will and intention, and for homework she assigned an experiment. They were to time themselves casting a series of elementary spells as they had been taught to, then repeat the process after spending some time connecting with their inner power first to see if their response time was quicker.

“Simultaneous. That is the key word. The power is not the result of a spell. It _is_ the spell.”

Harry's examination didn't really reveal anything he didn't already know, nothing conclusive. Being pale and gaunt and liking the dark wasn't proof of anything, really. The same could be said of Snape for as long as Harry had known him.

At dinner, Harry finished quickly. Those around him took their time, chatting with friends, unwinding after a day of classes. Being by himself, Harry did not have those distractions. He did have an appointment. He didn't like to admit to himself that he was looking forward to detention, but he was. His demons had become restless again and Harry needed the opportunity to quiet them for a little while.

He was making his way out of the Great Hall when he spied a shock of yellow hair. Eric Conners was entering the Hall just as Harry was leaving, loitering by the door and talking to some fellow Hufflepuffs. There was no way for Harry to avoid him. Then he reminded himself he hadn't intended to. Just the opposite. But his hands still went sweaty as he worked up his nerve. Harry didn't try to engage him in conversation or even intend to slow down, but he didn't avoid eye contact, and the boy's gaze was practically a tractor beam, slowing Harry's step. Eric gave him that smile again and very subtly, very casually swept his gaze the length of Harry's form approvingly as he passed, causing Harry to shiver slightly. Harry determined not to look away but still felt his cheeks colour. He could still feel the brush of those dark blue eyes as he knocked on Snape's door.

They headed to Snape's private laboratory again, to Harry's immense satisfaction. Harry liked the place. It was strange and surprising. He also found he rather liked who Snape was while he was in it. The laboratory was somehow cosy...in a very dysfunctional type of way, but that essentially defined the two of them at the moment. Once inside, Harry held the tub as Snape dismantled a large and complex construction on one of the worktables.

“So, you're done with this experiment, then?” Harry asked interestedly, taking pieces of it from Snape and depositing them carefully in the wash-tub.

“This was not an experiment, Harry. It happened to be something I perfected some time ago, thank you. But seeing as how we will no longer be requiring Wolfsbane, I can now make additional space for another project which has proven to be more troublesome than anticipated.”

It took an enormous effort for Harry not to drop the tub he held, shattering its contents. His legs still felt weak.

“You won't make Wolfsbane for Remus anymore?” Harry mumbled, finding it difficult to breathe. “What? _Why?_ Why would you do that? Just because he's gone back to Grimmauld Place?” he said accusingly. He wanted desperately to plead, _It was me. Don't punish him!_

Snape did not even look at him, only rolled his eyes at Harry's threatening histrionics. “Of course, you assume I've refused,” he grumbled with a sigh, carrying on with his work. “But you have it wrong, Harry. I am perfectly willing to carry on making the potion. Lupin, it seems, has refused to accept it. Apparently, there's something for which he feels he needs to atone,” he said, looking at Harry from the corner of his eye. “Foolishness if you ask me,” he muttered, “but there's no accounting for Gryffindors. Wolfsbane is a wonderfully complex potion that requires a deft hand, and with the exception of the Ministry embargo making Glumbumble Treacle difficult to come by these days, I quite enjoyed the practice.”

Harry was at a loss for words. He felt his insides crumple. It wasn't only the thought of Remus suffering. It was the thought of Remus suffering intentionally. And more than that, it was the knowledge that what they had done, which Harry still cherished, seemed terrible to Remus. So terrible and wrong and unforgivable that Remus felt the need to punish himself for it. And it was all Harry's fault. Tears threatened, but he so did not want to weep in front of this man. He felt he might vomit. _That_ he could do, but he didn't especially care to. The contents of his tub clinked faintly as Harry began to tremble. Snape lay a hand on his shoulder, startling Harry into looking up at him. His expression was not unkind.

"Sink, Harry,” he said quietly, and Harry nodded, eager to lose himself in the work now.

Though Harry didn't quite manage to focus as well as he had the night before, the exercise helped. Snape released him back to the Tower, and Harry went upstairs and undressed. But he replaced the cardigan. He would have to either stop wearing it or stop sleeping in it, one. Eventually but not yet. Harry pulled out his Map and the first place he checked (after Remus' rooms) was the alcove from the night before. This time, Eric was there but David was not. There was a different boy with him in the alcove...and a another one besides hovering outside in the corridor.

The implications made Harry's mouth go from suddenly dry to watering surprisingly quickly. A part of him felt as if he were spying as surely as he had been the night before, even though he was only watching dots and names dancing about on a piece of parchment. Harry put the Map away quickly, for some reason not wanting to see if the other boy went in; not wanting to know if he replaced one of the occupants or if he joined them. Still, Harry fell asleep that night with his dick in his hand, succumbing to hedonistic fantasies about what three boys could do to one another together in a secret alcove.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Pst! Look, guys! I found the Alcove on the Map!


	34. Though Inclination Be As Sharp As Will

Each night for the rest of the week, Harry followed Snape through The Locked Door. The routine became easy, practically companionable. It was a bit like having tea with Remus had been, but with far, far less urge for touching or talking. Snape's long silences were comforting too, though, in their way. Once it would have bothered him, but Harry had stopped worrying about what acidic thoughts Snape might not be voicing. He simply accepted that Snape wasn't one to speak unless he really had something to say, and typically all he had to say to Harry was scathing and critical. For the most part, as long as Harry gave him no provocation, Snape remained silent; ostensibly so Harry could focus on his work.

It wasn't that they didn't talk at all, though. Harry found that, though he'd never had an aptitude for potions himself, he didn't need practical skill to express an interest. Before starting his nightly exercise, he'd question Snape on this potion or that elixir. The Potions Master, perhaps unaccustomed to anyone showing any interest in what he did--or to giving anyone the opportunity to voice it--seemed to grudgingly enjoy placating Harry's relentless curiosity, occasionally discussing some of the intricacies of potion-making with him.

“Potions are entirely about chemistry and compatibility of ingredients, Harry. However, it isn't as straightforward as it seems. Often times, two ingredients that seem to be compatible reveal themselves to be anything but. It may be for any number of reasons. Reasons you may not discover until you try to join the two. And it is precisely that nuance which makes potion-making and invention so satisfying. Other times, you come across ingredients which, on the surface, do not seem as if they could possibly co-habit the same formula. But again, something about their nuance compliments the other, and the results can be startling. Take Moondew and Sal Ammoniac for instance...”

Harry found that, once Snape really got going, he could speak with no need of input for long periods of time. And sometimes Harry would forget his task entirely and pour all his mindfulness into simply listening to the sound of Snape's voice as the man himself tinkered with his equipment or carefully measured and bottled finished products. Even when Harry had no idea what Snape was talking about, the deep, rich texture of his voice, which it seemed to adopt whenever Snape wasn't commanding or berating Harry, was almost mesmeric.

The stability of their routine helped ground Harry as he still struggled with... _everything_ else. Mostly Remus. Especially Remus. But still, he began to wonder if his detention was meant to be indefinite, as Harry had other things on his mind, as well.

Each night after leaving Snape's rooms, Harry had a ritual all his own. Through his Map, Harry had noticed that--not every night, but most--Eric Conners would be at the alcove where he seemed to wait. Whether he had company and how much varied night to night. Eric wasn't always the one _in_ the alcove when others showed up. It seemed he was a kind of place-holder, or a look-out, or else a kind of overseer. Whether he participated or not, it was undoubtedly Eric's alcove. Harry hadn't spoken to him, though he'd seen him around campus. Or rather, it seemed Eric had seen him. Looked for him. But Harry wasn't ready yet to pay his own clandestine visit. He would want it to be when no one else was around, and he hadn't yet figured out when that was most likely to be.

He received a little encouragement Friday, however, in the form of an anonymous note dropped by his plate during dinner. Harry didn't notice it at first as he was still keeping a weather eye on Hermione and Draco. By the time he did notice it, whoever delivered it seemed to be long gone. There was no pink ink or hearts this time. (Though, there had been a couple of others since and he'd treated them the same as the first.) This one simply said: 'Shy?'

Harry wiped his hands on his jeans and looked around at the occupants of the Hall, and while his head was turned another note appeared. He discovered it where the first had been. Glancing about nervously, he opened the second with shaking hands.

'Tomorrow night. Just us. Bring the bondage straps.'

Harry swallowed, eyes wide. Well, that certainly made things simpler. Harry hadn't even needed to do the pursuing. Maybe he wouldn't have to endure a fat lip, after all. He looked around again, finally spotting golden hair and blue eyes. For a long while, Eric wouldn't relinquish Harry's gaze. Then he winked at him. It was slow and unambiguous. And Harry, suddenly light-headed, felt the urge to return to Gryffindor as quickly as possible.

The next day, Harry had his first private lesson with Professor Cobbleshot. It was no good being distracted at such a time, as Harry still didn't particularly like or trust his new professor. But he couldn't quite help himself. Yesterday's invitation sat smotheringly on his mind like a patch of Devil's Snare.

She took him outside the Castle walls; alone, which made him more than a little nervous. The late afternoon sky overhead was overcast, but she still hissed when she crossed the threshold to the outer grounds, cursing slightly under her breath as she shielded her eyes from the sun, leading Harry to the cover of the trees.

“We need privacy for what I'm about to teach you, My Harry,” she explained in her jagged voice. Harry eyed her dubiously but followed her further into the copse, unsettled in the extreme but telling himself that surely the people Harry trusted must trust her, or else the two would be supervised. She moved easily, almost gracefully, through the grasping underbrush and between the trees as if she were in her natural habitat. Judging by her tough, practical clothes, Harry supposed she was used to this sort of thing. Harry was not so much, and he cursed softly each time the greedy twigs and branches ripped another small hole in his new clothes.

“This will do,” she informed him when they reached a small clearing in the trees. Not only were they out of sight of the Castle, Harry wasn't entirely certain which direction led him back to it.

Cobbleshot did not immediately begin. As Harry picked bits of twig from his jumper, she regarded him very like she had that night in Grimmauld Place, almost as if he were a juicy cut of meat. Forgetting his jumper, he cautiously drew his wand as she stalked around him like a circling shark. “No wand today,” she said, easily taking it from him. She'd been mostly behind him and by the time he noticed her movement in his peripheral she'd already snatched it from his hand.

“Hey!” he objected angrily, trying to take it back. There were few things in the Wizarding World that showed worse manners than taking another Wizard's wand. She danced back with a wicked look of amusement and still would not return it. Harry's temper flared and his scar began to prickle.

“Uh-uh,” she chided, wagging a finger at him. “Temper, Harry. Do as Dear Severus taught you, now.” Harry ground his teeth, glaring at her, but obeyed. He took a deep, mind-clearing breath as he focused on the sound of the breeze twisting through the dying leaves overhead, on the stirring of some animal in the brush. He made himself mindful of the texture of the ground beneath his feet and the musty smell of decaying leaf litter. He made himself mindful of his own breath and heartbeat, and eventually, they slowed. His scar stilled.

Cobbleshot cackled again, but softly. “ _Too_ good. Now. I know you won't like it, but I'll be staying behind you. Try not to look at me. We don't want to give me away to the _Dark Lord_.” She said the name mockingly.

Harry made sure to keep his eyes averted but scowled as he asked, “How do you know-?”

“I need to know, and so I do,” she said plainly. “Now, why do you think we are here, My Harry?”

“You're training me.” That much was fairly obvious. At least, he hoped that was the reason they were there.

“Yes, but to do what?"

 _If everyone wants me to be psychic, why aren't I training with Trelawny, as well?_ he thought irritably. Harry focused on the trees again. “To protect myself against Voldemort.”

His completely lack of hesitance to say Voldemort's name seemed to excite her again. “Yess,” she hissed. “But what if he disarms you?” She waved his wand just within Harry's sight then withdrew again. “Conventional thinking is you'd be snake-food, yes? But we'll show him won't we, my beauty?” she whispered, suddenly close, caressing Harry's hair.

He batted her away like a pesky fly. “Can you _try_ to not be so weird and touchy and stuff? It's really putting me off,” Harry said petulantly.

“Apologies, Harry,” she said sincerely. “I've simply waited for you for such a long time.” He could hear the crunch of her footfall in the dead leaves as she stepped back. “Now, you're before the Dark Lord. You have no wand. You're at his mercy. What do you do?”

Harry tried desperately to think of breezes and creaking tree limbs and birdsong, but all he could envision was exactly what she'd mentioned: Being bound and wandless. Watching helplessly as Voldemort commanded that Cedric be killed. Killed effortlessly, as if he were an afterthought, like tossing a piece of rubbish.

“ _Yes_. You know this pain. You know. But do not succumb to it. That's what he wants. Remember, Harry, you aren't so helpless anymore.” Harry felt helpless. If she didn't have something really fantastic to teach him...

“What do you know about Wandless Magic, Harry?”

Harry shook off the vision, ignoring the tear on his cheek. “Wandless Magic?” he asked absently.

“Remember when I turned up the lights that day? No wand. Several powerful Wizards can do similar small parlour tricks. Wandless Magic is seen as a kind of novelty by most. The average Witch or Wizard cannot perform it at all. And even the strongest of us can do little more than make candles flare. But you are unique.”

“How so?” Harry asked, his heart skipping a beat. Hope was beginning to override his scepticism. He'd done Wandless Magic before. And he'd done so much more than bring up lights. She did not respond, but he could almost feel her grin on the back of his neck.

“What purpose does a wand serve, Harry?”

“Can't you just tell me what to do?” Harry sighed.

“Allow me this small pleasure. I've had so little in the past fifteen years,” she said.

Wind. Leaves. “Fine,” he said. “A wand is a conduit. It concentrates and directs.”

“Is there not something uniquely in your possession which might do the same?” she asked slyly. Harry tried to resist the urge to bring a hand to his scar, but couldn't prevent his fingers from twitching.

“That's right, Harry! _Th_ _e Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not!”_ Again the cackle and, from the sound of it, a small dance of glee.

“Okay,” Harry said, wetting his lips. “But we can't. I mean, he knows when I use it. I can't really practice.”

“Hence not looking at me. But practice we must. Don't let him in, Harry, and he won't understand.”

“Can _you_ do it?” Harry asked, wondering how it was she was such an authority.

“We don't all have such powerful gifts. But some of us, with enough training, are not so helpless as most.”

“Show me,” he demanded, pulse racing. She moved back into Harry's line of sight with deliberate steps, locking eyes with him as if they were engaged in some sort of dance. Her smile was slow and mysterious, as if to say 'just wait until you see _this_ '. Then she turned to one of the trees in front of them, letting her arms fall to her sides, palms out, closing her eyes. She inhaled deeply, throwing back her head in a manner that was almost obscene, almost sexual; and on the exhale, her head snapped back up, eyes wide, and she breathed the spell.

“ _Animus Secretum''_

Harry saw nothing leave her, but pieces of splintered bark burst off the surface of the tree directly ahead, flying in all directions. Before they even finished hitting the ground, Harry rushed forward to examine it. It looked as though the tree had been used for knife practice. At least a dozen shallow slashes scarred the surface; superficial, but no doubt highly uncomfortable had this been a person instead. Harry touched the scarred wood almost reverently, then turned back to Cobbleshot with bright eyes. “You can teach me to do this?

“My Little Harry,” she whispered affectionately. “I have no doubt I can teach you to do so much more,” she purred.

Without having to be told, Harry quickly resumed his original position several paces from the tree. Cobbleshot stepped back out of sight, her eyes never leaving Harry as she went, every line of her body screaming with anticipation.

“Focus, Harry,” she instructed. “Be here only. Find your power inside you and allow it to come. Don't think about how, just give it permission. See what you would strike and remove the leash. Are you ready?” _She_ sounded ready. She sounded almost manic.

Harry nodded, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He reached within himself. There was the spell he'd courted the week before, full of contradiction and power. He greeted it like a friend.

“Be _here_ , Harry. Open your eyes. See your target.”

Harry did. He chose a spot on the tree ahead and focused, solidifying his intent. And then, he breathed.

“ _Animus Secretum_ ”

Without the aid of his wand this time, the air in front of his scar began to swell with light and shadow, but it did not obstruct his vision. He felt Voldemort stir, but he filled himself with _here_ , _now_ , giving him no foothold. His scar burned with cold fire.

“Now, Harry!” Cobbleshot cried.

He let go. The orb shot across the distance, striking the tree and blowing a crater in its trunk the size of an apple. Splinters flew all the way back to rain over Harry where he stood, swaying. Harry's vision darkened around the edges and he felt himself falling, felt himself being caught by strong, thin arms before he hit the ground. He was beyond spent and his vision swam. He was vaguely aware of spindly fingers gently stroking the hair from his brow.

“ _Perfection_ ,” Harry heard Cobbleshot whisper, a smile in her voice. And just before he lost consciousness, Harry smiled, as well.

He slowly came to to find himself floating through the hallways, unsure how he'd gotten there. He realised Cobbleshot must be carrying him. And then that that shouldn't have been possible, but he was too dizzy still to focus on it. “What-?” he asked groggily, trying to lift his head.

“Are you awake already?” she said, pleased. She set him on his feet but too soon and too quickly, and he almost found himself on the floor. “There now,” she said, supporting him with an arm around his shoulder. “I know. It's difficult at first. But before you need it, we'll be sure you can keep your eyes open afterwards.”

“Did I really do what I think I did?” he asked unsteadily.

“Oh, indeed you did.” She handed him a chocolate frog and he accepted it, surprised.

“Did you think it was only good for Dementors?” she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Eat it, and then to bed,” she insisted, pulling him faster than he cared for down the corridor.

“Mm-Mn,” he grunted around his chocolate, shaking his head. He swallowed enough to allow him to speak. “I can't go to bed,” he explained thickly. “I have detention.”

She scoffed. “You leave that old toad to me,” she assured him. Harry almost choked on his chocolate. He didn't know of anyone who had ever dared refer to Snape as a toad. Harry barked a short laugh despite himself. She gave him a brittle smile. “Don't you worry, Little One. I know how to handle that one. But here we are. To bed,” she repeated when they reached the Portrait Hole.

Harry had regained most of his strength, the chocolate having helped immensely, and he stood on his own and regarded her. “Thank you, Professor,” he said sincerely.

“My friends call me Cobs,” she croaked, winking at him.

“Does that mean we're friends now?” he smiled back cheekily.

“Oh, My Little Harry,” she sighed, running a fingertip down his cheek, causing him to flinch. “I'd like us to be _best_ of friends.” Harry's good humour was abruptly extinguished, and he swallowed uncomfortably. But his expression only seemed to tickle her. “Go to bed now. Unless you'd like me to tuck you in?”

No threat could have been more effective. Harry scrambled through the Portrait Hole without another word, hearing her soft chuckle fade as the Portrait swung to a close behind him.

 

 


	35. In the Secret Parts of Fortune? O, Most True; She is a Strumpet

Despite Cobbleshot's instructions, Harry had no intention of actually going to bed. The chocolate had done wonders and he hadn't had a free evening in what felt like ages. He did go to his room and lay down, though; his mind too full of too many things.

His lesson with Cobbleshot had been exhausting but exhilarating. He knew the skill wouldn’t solve all his problems if he happened to be captured, but it was nice to have a secret weapon of his own. It would be unexpected, and it certainly seemed to Harry as if it would incapacitate at least one foe. The element of surprise was always useful. Wands and magic were so conventionally inseparable, the term Wandless Magic was practically an oxymoron. Everyone was always concerned about how strong a person’s wand was, how compatible it was with its bearer. No one, not even Voldemort, would suspect what he was capable of. It gave Harry hope. Not mountains of it, but enough, as if that was one thing he could now stop worrying so obsessively over.

There were others, however. Harry chewed his bottom lip, then reached into his pocket to withdraw the note he'd received the day before, re-reading it for the hundredth time.

**'Tomorrow night. Just us. Bring the bondage straps.'**

_Bring the bondage straps._ Harry shivered. He knew it was a joke. At least, he _hoped_ it was a joke. But it didn't make him feel like laughing. Far, far from it. Harry closed his eyes, debating. (Well, he did a bit of fantasising, too, but mostly it was debating.) _Tonight_. Eric Conners would be waiting for _him_ in the alcove tonight. Harry was nervous. He told himself that he shouldn't be, that this was what he'd been wanting to happen. But he couldn't help it. If he accepted this invitation, he'd finally know once and for all, wouldn't he? He'd know if it was just Remus or if he really was attracted to boys in general.

Harry worried the note he still held. He read it again. He  _would_ know, wouldn't he? Something would seem wrong or gross or _something_. And what if it didn't? What would that mean?

But there had been Cho. And Harry was certain he'd liked Cho. And not for her personality; he hadn't really known her. He'd just seen her and had wanted to kiss her.

 _But,_  at the same time, there was Hermione. And he didn't want to kissher. Inexplicably, he just didn't. Hermione, who was pretty and smart and courageous, who was almost perfect in all the ways that mattered, who knew him better than he knew himself. _His_ Hermione, who...who...

Who was dating Draco Malfoy. And Harry wanted to strangle the bastard for it. Harry would not say he was not jealous. He just wasn't jealous in the right way. And he should be, shouldn’t he? The fact that he wasn't surely was proof that he _must_ be gay.

Wasn't it?

Harry groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. He'd never been so confused. Of course, there was one person who could help him make sense of it--who could make sense of anything--but she wasn't available for consultation.

Harry sat up in bed, still debating, but this time over something else.

Though Draco had surely been doing his best to keep them apart, Harry thought he could tell Hermione wasn't happy with the distance that had developed between them. She'd been withdrawn after confessing her feelings, but he felt certain she would have come to him after he'd caught her with Draco the first time if he hadn't indicated that she shouldn't. She'd startedto come to him after the thing with Remus. The point was, she had tried. And maybe it was time for Harry to try, too.

He made his way to the Common Room but did not find her. Harry waited around on the sofa for nearly an hour, thinking he'd catch her on her way through, but he saw no sign of her. Finally, Harry petitioned a random girl to go upstairs and see if she was in her dorm room, and if she was to please fetch Hermione for him. It was a lot to ask of a practical stranger and he thought, belatedly, of trying to bribe the girl somehow, but he had nothing of value handy. Luckily, she acted as if there was nothing else in the world she'd rather do, and Harry eyed her closely as she went, hoping she hadn't been the author of one of his pink notes. If so, there was no telling if Harry’s message would be delivered accurately.

But she’d already gone up, and there was nothing he could do about it at that point. She was gone for a long while, actually, so Harry sat back down on the sofa, picking up the new Quibbler. He was becoming rather addicted to it. If nothing else, there was the Continuing Saga of Ol' Shotty to follow. Harry flipped straight to the back. Sure enough, there was an ad telling his Truest Heart and Blood that a mutual friend would be depositing a gift on her doorstep soon. 'I hope you know how to use it.' Shotty sure liked things to be complicated, Harry thought. He would have just gone with flowers and chocolates. There were only so many ways to use those gifts.

Just as Harry was contemplating what kind of difficult-to-use gift was being left (Something Muggle-made, perhaps?), the Random Girl returned with Hermione in tow, and Harry quickly stood to meet them as they came down the stairs. His go-between slipped to the side to give them some privacy but not far enough away to actually provide any. Harry tried not to scowl at her. She _had_ helped him, after all.

Hermione hesitated on the last step, and they regarded one another awkwardly.

“Hello, Hermione,” he said, nervous for some reason. She smiled, but it was small and perfunctory.

“Harry,” she replied. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice but also the hope. However, neither seemed to know where to start. The silence between them started to turn embarrassing, and the audience in the Common Room was far too large and attentive for Harry's liking.

“Do you, perhaps, want to...?” he asked, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the Portrait Hole.

She hesitated but then nodded. “Yeah, okay. Sure,” she said softly, as aware of all the prying eyes as he was.

Harry led the way and they strolled slowly down the corridor not too far from Gryffindor. Curfew would be coming soon, and Harry suspected she had plans of her own. The thought didn't help make their reconciliation any easier. Their outing had the stiff and uncomfortable air of a first date with someone you weren't sure you should have asked out in the first place. The distance between them at Grimmauld Place was nothing compared to this, and he kicked himself that he had allowed things to become so difficult.

It was Hermione, eventually, who broke the silence. “Harry,” she ventured gently, eyeing the ever-present cardigan. “Where's Remus?”

Of _course,_ that would be her first line of inquiry. The wound was still too raw and he spoke before thinking. “How's _Draco?_ ” he said bitingly. Pain pinched her expression and he instantly felt like an arse. He shook his head as if chastising himself. “I'm sorry, Hermione,” he said immediately. This was not why he'd dragged her out of her room. She studied him for a long while before apparently deciding that he'd meant it. She relaxed a bit, accepting his apology with a nod and waiting for him to work up the nerve to answer her question.

It took him a moment.

“Remus is...” Harry bowed his head. _Gods_ , he'd been gone a week. It felt like an eternity to Harry, and still he had trouble saying it out loud. “Remus is gone,” he said in a broken whisper.

Hermione took a stuttering step closer as if she wanted to comfort him, and her face broke into the very picture of sympathy. “Oh, _Harry,_ ” she sighed, fearful. “Did you...?”

Harry puffed out a short, joyless laugh. He tried to smile but failed spectacularly. It amazed him that he still had tears left for this. He examined the ceiling, knowing she'd see them anyway but willing them to subside.

“You know me, Hermione,” he said wryly. But he couldn't keep up the act, and his expression crumpled lightly. She lay a hand on his arm. Then, deciding that wouldn't suffice, she pulled him into a hug which Harry returned. It felt like such a long time since he'd last talked her. He'd meant what he'd said to Remus. Harry needed Hermione and was only just realising how much in that moment. He couldn't seem to let her go. 

“I've missed you, Hermione,” he sobbed softly into her hair.

“I've missed you, too,” she replied in a tearful whisper. They hugged each other for a long while, and when they pulled back both their cheeks were wet. Finally, they smiled at one another, and it easy and natural again, and very long overdue. Even though they no longer embraced, neither was willing to let go of the other's hands.

“So,” he sniffed, trying to regain his composure. “How is it going? With...” Harry could hardly bring himself to say his name.

Hermione nodded. “Okay, actually,” she told him, as if amazed by it herself. “We don't do much other than talk.” She said it plainly. It wasn't a confession. She didn't have to justify herself to Harry and wasn't looking for his approval. “It's all I'm ready for, really,” she explained, “and he respects that.” Hearing that Draco respected Hermione made Harry feel as if he'd stepped into some alternate dimension. But he was honestly and sincerely happy for her. Not about the situation, but for her. She didn't seem haunted at all anymore.

“Good,” he said, trying to convince himself he meant it. “That's good, Hermione. I'm glad.”

Hermione fixed him with a look. “Harry,” she said, intuitive as ever. “You didn't bring me out here to talk about Draco.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. She knew him too well. “Listen,” he said, releasing her hands and nervously running one of his own through his hair. “I know I don't have any right to talk to you about this. I don't know if you still feel..." _No_. Wrong. Different tact. "It's just that I've no one else to talk to, Hermione,” he explained, looking at her imploringly. “And I know that you...” Gods, this was so hard. “I know it looks as if I'm just trying to be your friend when it's convenient.” She shook her head as if to convey that wasn't what she'd meant, but he continued before he lost his nerve. “But I've _hated_ that we haven't been talking. I want to give you your space, if you need it-”

She took his hand to quiet him. “Harry. It's okay,” she assured him, giving it a firm squeeze. “Really it is. I understand. And I can tell something is on your mind.” She ducked her head to catch his eye. “You know you can talk to me about anything, Harry.”

He let out a grateful sigh though still sneered at his own audacity. He didn't let go of her hand. “I know I _can_ , Hermione. I just don't know if I should.”

“Harry, what is it?” she asked, sounding increasingly troubled.

He looked up through his fringe at her open expression, searching for any sign that what he was about to say might hurt her. He took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “It's just that I might have a date tonight,” he said, trying to judge her reaction. Harry wasn't sure whether or not he was relieved when she gave none. “With a bloke.”

“Why, Harry!” she exclaimed quietly, surprised but obviously quite proud of him. “Why, that's _good_. I mean...” Her cheeks coloured. “I just thought you were about to tell me something awful had happened,” she laughed, sounding relieved. “Well? Who is he?”

Even though she was being supportive, he still blushed from ear to ear. “No one you're likely to know,” he dodged. “Just someone from Hufflepuff. It's not _serious_ or anything.” It was absolutely the furthest thing _from_ serious. Honestly, he didn't know himself what it was. He sighed. “It's just that I'm not sure that I'll go. I mean, I haven't decided yet if I should,” he confessed.

“Go on,” she urged, "What is it?" He swallowed nervously.

“I'm _confused_ , Hermione. I'd never really noticed boys before, and now I'm meant to go and snog one?” He felt his face burn. “I don't understand it. I don't understand how I can be so infatuated with Cho Chang and then suddenly...Well, how in hell _is_ it that I like Remus and Eric if I...?” He wasn’t even sure he was making sense. He couldn't seem to finish any of this thoughts. He hadn't worked any of them out sufficiently to manage it. “And with Cho. If I can like Cho that way then why can't I make myself…I mean, why can't you and I...” He broke off, looking at her apologetically. The rest of that thought was simply too depressing and Harry shouldn't have even started it. He groaned and released her hand to rub his eyes. He was such a cock up.

Hermione didn't seem to be bothered, though. She simply shook her head and looked at him as if he was being daft. Harry couldn't help but break into a weak smile. He'd missed that look.

“Harry. You don't have to choose, you know. And I'm not saying that just because I hope you, well... _you know_.” She blushed again but ignored it and carried on. “It's not either-or,” she explained more confidently. “It's _okay_ to like whatever you like. _Anyone_ you like. You're not required to register a preference or anything. You can like Cho _and_ this Eric person.

“And as for us.” She shook her head sadly, but there was no pain in her expression. “As for us, Harry, we're just good friends. Perhaps we're simply too good of friends to be anything else. But, you know? We _will always_ be good friends,” she said, catching his eye again and making sure he understood.

He nodded, a little overcome, and pulled her into another grateful hug. “Thank you, Hermione,” he said, allowing himself to smile, to finally forgive himself for not returning her attraction as it seemed she'd forgiven him a while ago and he hadn't bothered to notice. Noticing was her strong suit, not his, and it was no wonder he'd been a screw-up this whole while they hadn't been talking. “Hey,” he said, feeling playful again for the first time in a long while. “How is it you know everything, again?”

She laughed at that. It was light and easy and good for Harry's soul. “I actually use my faculties the way they were intended,” she said matter-of-factly though through a smile, rapping her knuckles lightly on the top of his head. “Unlike some silly boys I know. Now. Don't you have a date to be getting ready for?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. There was nothing for it. Now that he'd mentioned it, there was no way she'd let him back out. “Just be sure not to wear those hideous trousers again that Mrs. Weasley picked up,” she grimaced. “I swear, I _told_ her they were a terrible idea, but she said she couldn't get her money back for them.”

Harry cracked up at that. “He's requested them, actually!” he grinned. She looked horrified.

“You aren't _actually_ going to wear them, though?”

Harry refused to admit he really had considered it. “No,” he said with a shudder. “In fact, they may find themselves in the rubbish bin tonight. But _you_ could help me pick something,” he proposed hopefully, unsure if he'd taken things too far.

She grinned at him and took his arm like she used to, leading him back to the Common Room. “Come on, Cinderella. Let's get you ready for the ball.”

A surprised laugh burst from him. “Really, Hermione. I haven't even snogged the guy. I don't think I'm quite ready for drag.”

She batted at his arm. “Oh, stop pretending you don't know what I mean,” she chided. “I'm making sure you look presentable. We both know if I leave it to you you'll just close your eyes and hope what you fish out of your trunk isn't as horrid as that outfit you wore last week. Half the Tower is still talking about it.”

“That wasn't _my_ doing!” he said defensively. “Snape threw random clothes at me and made me put them on.”

Hermione gave him a sideways look, perhaps wondering why Snape was forcing clothes on Harry, but she bit her tongue. Harry didn't have it in him to explain properly. It was too nice having Hermione back, and he decided he'd best just stop talking before he made things weird again.

Harry made his way to the alcove later that night feeling like his world had righted itself by at least a few degrees. He was far too sharply dressed for whatever this was he was walking into, but playing dress up with Hermione had been fun. She'd groaned at most of his suggestions and lamented that some boys would wear anything half-way clean and only partially wrinkled. Then she took it upon herself to deck him in Autumnal colours (as she called them), which she claimed complimented his complexion. He simply took her word for it and put on whatever she laid out for him.

He had to admit, he did look nice. If not for Hermione he'd have come wearing a worn out t-shirt or something. But perhaps that would have been for the best. He didn't want Eric to think he was taking this too seriously. This was The Alcove. Whatever it was, it was casual. He hadn't even been, but he understood that much.

Though somehow, knowing he looked nice gave him the confidence he needed to see this through. At least, he thought it did; for at least most of the way there. But the closer he got, the more anxious he became. Eric had said it would just be the two of them, but Harry'd left the Map behind. He hadn't wanted to explain it if the boy accidentally discovered it. And Harry hoped Eric would be sure to investigate anywhere he might have stowed it. Harry felt his face burn at the thought, and for a moment he panicked.

Just what in hell did he think he was doing, really? Was he actually about to tuck in behind a curtain with a boy he'd never even spoken with?

Harry vacillated. Why did he even need to prove this to himself? So what if he was gay or wasn't gay or whatever? It wasn't as if he didn't have more important things to worry about. And it wasn't as if he was pent up to the point of distraction. He'd been taking care of that just fine on his own for a little while now. In fact, he was almost surprised the thing still functioned, he'd given it such a work out these past several days.

But he _was_ curious. Harry thought of Eric again, with his full hair and blue eyes. He remembered the way he'd sized Harry up in the Great Hall and the expression on his face when he'd first met Harry in the corridor. Harry recalled quite clearly what he'd overheard just before then. Abruptly, Harry's pulse quickened, along with his pace. But he only made it as far as the next corridor over before he stopped again.

He _knew_ what kind of trouble his impulsiveness got him into. But he also knew he never held out against it for long. He finished the trek at a crawl, warring with himself all the way. Maybe Eric wouldn't even be there, he worried. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe it was a prank. Wouldn't that be just his luck? But no. Harry'd watched the nook for a week. No one who frequented would admit to having seen him there. That was the whole point of it.

Harry knew he was making excuses. He found himself standing before the wall-hanging, bunching his jumper in his fists, still trying to decide whether to go in or to make himself known or... _whatever_ they did. He didn't even know the protocol.

He had just determined to give the whole venture up, to just go back to Gryffindor and spin some sappy hand-holding story for Hermione, when a hand appeared. It shot out from inside and grasped Harry by the wrist, yanking him through the wall hanging whether he had decided he really wanted to be there or not. Harry suddenly found himself face to face with a handsome, very chuffed-looking Hufflepuff. He swallowed hard.

Eric seemed to have decided the whole of the alcove consisted of the two square feet they now shared. Harry wasn't exactly comfortable with such instant intimacy, but he held his ground. He couldn't quite wipe the terrified look from his face, though, and Eric laughed softly at him though not mockingly. Amusement and lust were written equally at the corners of the boy's mouth. Harry couldn't look away.

“So, I was right,” the boy said, not bothering to hide the way he was admiring Harry's mouth, as well. “Shy. But not _too_ shy.” Eric's voice was a caress. Harry gulped and didn't reply, but his mouth may have fallen open slightly. He was intensely aware that Eric had not released his hand and that the boy's own was now sliding slowly up Harry's arm. It made breathing difficult.

“You showed up a bit too late last time. I kept waiting for you to come back,” Eric pouted prettily, “but you never did.” The words were low and spoken so close to Harry's face they made soft puffs of breath that teased Harry's lips, making him dizzy. He was just _so_ close, and the heat coming off of him was fogging Harry's brain like a car window on a cool morning. “Harry _Fucking_ Potter,” he whispered smugly, running a finger lazily along Harry's jawline, causing him to gasp. “Who would have thought it?” He moved a smidgen closer, almost nuzzling Harry's cheek as he chuckled softly. Everything the boy did and everything about him seemed to be soft, from the thick, dark blonde fringe of his lashes to his well-formed lips which seemed to be seeking Harry's own, though their owner kept them in check...for now. “Oh, you have no idea how many girls are going to be _pissed_ when they find out,” Eric grinned.

The comment helped snap Harry back to reality. He was suddenly consternated and moved back as far as the seat behind his knees would allow him. Which was perhaps half an inch. “I'm not...I mean, I don't...”

“Oh, don't worry, Ducky,” Eric said with a sultry laugh. “They won't hear it from me.” He sighed longingly but seemed to finally take pity on Harry, releasing his arm and backing up to lounge on the half-circle couch that ran along the inside of the alcove. Harry's lungs took the opportunity to properly fill themselves. Several times. Eric's movements were undoubtedly seductive but in no way effeminate. No matter what he suspected of Harry's inclinations, Harry was out of his element. And they both knew it. “Rules of the Nook, as it were: No kiss and tell. No sharing the location unless you're sure. There were more of us last year,” the boy shrugged with a sigh, “ but what are you going to do?”

Harry nodded wordlessly. Those terms sounded just fine to him.

“By the way, who told you about the alcove?” Eric asked. He eyed Harry curiously, then hungrily, actually licking his lips. “I asked all the others, but no one will fess up.”

Harry cleared his throat. “No one,” he admitted quietly, shaking his head. “No one told me.”

Eric obviously didn't believe him. “Just a happy accident, then?” he asked sceptically.

Harry scowled slightly. “Perhaps.” Everything about Eric's posture spoke of invitation, and though Harry's own body was telling him to go ahead and accept it already, he was starting to have second thoughts. He began to feel as if he really had no business being there. If he was honest with himself, the only reason he was was because he couldn’t be with who he really wanted. Harry felt a bit guilty, as if he were cheating on Remus. Which was absurd but didn’t change the way he felt. He lifted a hand to stroke his cardigan only to realise he hadn’t worn it.

“I was visiting a friend,” Harry explained, swallowing back that pain and locking it away. “I just happened to be passing outside in the corridor when you...” Harry looked away and hugged the backs of his arms, hoping it was too dark for the other boy to see his deep blush.

Eric's eyebrows rose. “ _Well_. Lucky me,” he said, leaning forward to coax one of Harry's hands free and urge him to have a seat beside him. Though the touch thrilled him, Harry did so hesitantly. He didn't quite understand himself. When he'd gone to Remus that night, he had been determination personified. Now, he felt like he was in some unimaginative porno, playing the role of the shy schoolgirl in over her head. And if Harry was the prey, Eric was definitely the predator. He didn't waste any time moving in for the kill.

Harry leaned back slightly and placed his fingertips on Eric's chest, stilling him. He needed a second to think, to remember why he'd come and decide if he really wanted to stay. But he was rather distracted by the observation that Eric wasn't _all_ soft. Not at all. The chest beneath Harry's fingers was firm and well-shaped. He took a moment to just look at the boy. Nothing about him reminded him of Remus. Not even their hair, which were two very different shades of blonde. Eric's gently questioning eyes were large and darkened by desire, his lips were full and his nose delicate. No, nothing like Remus. Remus had been far more rugged. Eric didn't look feminine but was definitely at the gentler end of the masculine spectrum.

It was his jaw, Harry decided. It was too strong for a girl, and his neck was more substantial. And satisfyingly, Harry realised both looked delicious to him. It all did, really. Something about the subtle androgyny was unbelievably tempting. But there was nothing fragile about Eric. This was undeniably a boy, and Harry was undeniably aroused.

So that answered that question. The next was whether he was going to do anything about it.

“Look. I mean I've never...” Harry swallowed loudly and willed away his blush. “This is kind of new to me,” he admitted, voice quavering.

“Ah,” Eric said, eyes lighting up as if Christmas had come early. “So _that's_ it.” The boy's grin both unsettled Harry and made his breath catch in his throat. " _Very_ lucky me, then. Don't fret, Ducky. I'll be gentle,” he teased, leaning in again. And Harry allowed it this time, his eyes fluttering almost to a close.

“Well,” Harry whispered just before their lips met, “you don't have to go _that_ far.”

Eric paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes dancing with delight. And then they were kissing.

And, oh! It was surprising. Eric's lips were full but strong. They didn't simply lap at Harry but rather wrestled with Harry's own. Harry couldn't suppress an almost immediate whimper.

He also couldn’t help comparing it with his last kiss. Eric wasn't nearly as talented as Remus had been, but he was definitely practised, even if Harry felt he was trying a bit too hard to impress. Though, it was far from disappointing. Harry knew he was woefully inexperienced himself, but it didn't matter. Harry wasn't timid. And he was a fast learner.

They opened to one another, tongues gently but persistently vying for supremacy. It was heady and sublime, and before long Harry found his hands had a mind of their own. One slipped itself beneath Eric's shirt, just grasping the boy's hip at first as if to ground Harry as he lost himself in the kiss. He'd not gotten to do this with Remus. He'd been so close, but he hadn't actually laid his hand on Remus' bare skin. He'd dreamed of it since, wondered now if it would have felt the same. Then their kiss deepened, and Harry's hand was skimming the length of Eric's torso, loving the flatness of it, the firmness. He slid it up the boy's back, grasping at his shoulder while his other hand finally searched out what it'd been longing for all week.

Eric's hair was stacked short in the back, but where it was longer, there seemed no end of it. It was so thick Harry could scarcely weave his fingers through it. But weave them he did. It was almost downy underneath, and it reminded Harry of something. It reminded him of…

 _Fur_.

Dense Wolf-fur.

Harry quivered, taking as much of it in his hand as he could. Harry felt the boy's pleasantly surprised groan against his tongue.

 _And gods_. Introducing vibration to kissing was the most brilliant thing Harry could think of. He wanted Eric to moan again and tightened his grip. Then again, more roughly, until the boy finally pulled back, breaking their kiss to drink in Harry's fierce, heavy-lidded expression.

“Not so inexperienced as you let on, then?” he panted, raising an eyebrow. “But slow down a bit, Duck. There's no hurry.”

Harry considered this for a half a moment but then quickly shook his head. “Next time,” he muttered, already lunging again for the boy's lips. Eric drew back, just out of reach, and his grin turned wicked. The time for nicety seemed to be over, and Harry's stomach did a small flip. Eric snaked a hand around to press into the small of Harry's back beneath his jumper, pulling him closer as he attacked Harry's mouth in earnest. Now _this,_ this was more like the kiss he and Remus had shared. Deep and insistent and urgent, almost violent. Eric caught Harry's bottom lip in his teeth and Harry moaned loudly.

“I knew you wouldn't be a quiet one,” Eric whispered huskily against the corner of Harry's mouth. Harry responded by quickly removing his hand from Eric's shirt (Not his hair. _Gods_ , not his hair.) and whipping out his wand to mutter a quick sound-dampening spell on the chamber, his eyes never leaving the boy's mouth as he did so. Eric seemed impressed. “Useful that.”

Harry rather wished the boy would stop talking. It kept distracting him from imagining who he really wanted. “It comes in handy,” Harry replied breathlessly, already considering where to next sample the skin in front of him. “I value my privacy.” Before the sentence had fully passed Harry's lips, they were pressed to other boy's neck, tasting the light film of sweat there, nipping at it gently. Eric clung to him and pushed at him at the same time, gasping. It was spectacular and almost combative, and Harry felt like growling, like pinning this beautiful boy beneath him and testing every inch of him with his teeth.

 _Was it meant to do that?_ Harry wondered vaguely as Eric shifted his hips so that the planes of their bodies better aligned as they kissed. _Was this exercise supposed to be so savage?_ He remembered the look on Remus' face as he'd touched Harry that night, the feral snarl on his lips. And then Harry really did growl. Eric shivered. He responded by sinking both of his hands inside Harry's jumper and carefully raking his nails like claws across Harry's ribs. Harry threw his head back with a voiceless cry, the sensation making his whole body twitch. His chest heaved and he looked back down at the boy, slightly surprised by the intensity of his own reaction.

“You told me not to be gentle,” Eric said with a coy shrug. Then instead of reaching his face up to kiss him again, Eric pressed Harry roughly against the back of the couch and straddled his legs. Harry’s hands instinctively settled on the boy’s hips, but the sudden change of position overwhelmed him. For all his thoughts of pinning and biting, Harry realised he was completely at Eric's mercy. The bold Hufflepuff ran his hands firmly up Harry's torso, pulling up his shirt as he did so to reveal Harry's chest to the cool air of the alcove. It was a shock to his senses, but before Harry could properly process it over the delicious additional sensation of hands against skin, Eric's head dipped.

Harry thought he might have seen stars as warm breath struck his nipple moments before hot, wet lips wrapped themselves around it. He cried aloud this time, clutching at the back of Eric's head as if to ensure he didn't stop whatever miraculous thing he was presently doing. While his mouth was occupied elsewhere, one of Eric's hands moved cautiously lower, toward the snap on Harry's jeans. For the first time since they began, Harry felt apprehensive. Part of him screamed that this was not for this stranger to take. It belonged to someone else, even if that someone did not want it. He stilled Eric's hand with his own and wet his lips, flustered, his voice trembling. “Eric, I-”

“So, you _do_ know my name,” the boy said, smiling. The comment had been so unexpected that Harry couldn't reply. Eric didn't remove his hand, but he didn't move to continue. He left it where it was as he bent down to whisper in Harry's ear. “Trust me, _Harry_.”

The sound of his name spoken in such a sensual voice, and the sensation of breath against the sensitive part of his neck just below his earlobe, caused Harry to twitch. But this time it was localised to beneath the tight denim under Eric's waiting hand, and the other boy knew he'd won. He didn't rush it, though, as if he understood better than Harry did how important this first time really was. He kissed Harry more gently now, cajolingly, carefully undoing Harry's jeans. Harry's hands finally fell away, granting the boy permission as he panted against Eric's lightly caressing lips.

His head fell back against the wall, eyes closed and breath held, as Eric gingerly fished him from his pants. _Gods_. He knew he wouldn't last long, and he was pre-emptively humiliated. But Eric seemed to know a thing or two about this. His touch was slow and thorough, drawing a moan from Harry instead of climax. As Harry concentrated on each luxurious stroke, remembering a similar fantasy involving a different set of careful fingers, Eric concentrated on Harry’s expression. Then, he gently took Harry's hand and pressed it to his own erection. Harry did his best to reciprocate, firmly petting the fabric-covered bulge as Eric pressed into his touch. Hand shaking, Harry unfastened the top button but then hesitated.

“I don't know how,” he confessed.

“Don't worry,” Eric said patiently, despite that he was panting heavily himself now. “I'll show you.” He liberated himself from his pants and guided Harry's hand, moaning sweetly as Harry's fingers closed around his prick.

It was so different from Harry's, longer but more slender. It felt somehow alien and familiar at the same time. Eric laid his own hand over Harry's and led him, showing Harry where and when to apply pressure and how much. It wasn't the same as doing it to oneself. There was much more finesse required, and somehow Eric applied that finesse to them both at the same time.

“You're doing so well,” he encouraged Harry with a barely-suppressed moan. “That's it, right there. Just a little twist and, _oh!_ ” The sound of Eric's pleasure made Harry's spike, and he involuntarily thrust up into the boy's fist. “ _Good!_ Now you're getting it,” he said, rocking his hips. He released Harry's hand to lose himself in the sensation, tossing his head back and exposing that gleaming golden throat in all its glory. Harry couldn't resist hooking it with his free hand and bringing it to his lips. He wasn't able to focus on doing anything particularly intricate there, he simply wanted to taste it. Eric mewled and bucked under Harry's hand.

And so it continued, back and forth, until they were both writhing--their movements more frantic than artful--and Harry simply couldn't any longer. His own hand stilled as he threw his head back, replacing the name that wanted to escape his lips with a strangled cry as he came over Eric's fingers.

“ _Oh gods,_ Harry. Your _face_ ,” the boy groaned, knocking Harry's now mostly-useless hand away to take over, bringing himself quickly to a finish. Harry could feel Eric's body shudder atop him as he came, and Harry's residual sensitivity made his own body respond in kind. All of Eric's bones seemed to disappear at once, and he melted into Harry. Both of them were breathless. Spent and sticky. Eric cast a scouring spell with a rubbery arm then went back to curling against Harry's chest.

“Mmm. I could get used to this,” he purred into Harry's neck, giving it a quick swipe with his tongue. Harry shuddered again, amusing the boy in his lap. Harry'd never been so sensitive or so sated. He imagined he could get used to this kind of thing himself. He had no romantic feelings toward Eric, but the experience had had the tang of addiction. Harry could certainly do this again, and so much more besides. He slid an arm around the quivering Hufflepuff and slipped the tips of his fingers into the waistband at the back of Eric's trousers, causing him to squeak.

“Not tonight, Ducky,” he rasped through a contented smile. “Maybe next time.” But Harry hadn't had anything in mind besides feeling more smooth skin, besides investigating the unfamiliar shape of a warm, pliant body other than his own.

Eric reluctantly drew himself up, giving Harry one last luscious kiss before crawling off him. They both went about tucking themselves back in and adjusting things in preparation to leave. Harry felt as if he should be feeling something more than this milky afterglow. Something like shame, or embarrassment. But there was none.

Okay, perhaps there was a bit of guilt. But Remus had cast him away. Remus wouldn’t have him. Harry couldn’t save himself forever for a man he wasn’t sure would ever…

Harry pushed those thoughts from his mind, he wouldn’t waste this sense of peace. But far below it, quiet for the time being but newly born, was an appetite he'd never known before. One that would have to be fed again eventually.

“Tomorrow?” Eric asked hopefully, rising from the couch.

Harry was still processing his revelation and what had just happened. “Maybe,” he said distractedly. He didn't like committing to anything.

“You don't happen to have any headache potion, do you?” Eric asked, almost as an afterthought. Harry looked at him quizzically. “It's just that, in a pinch, it makes great lube.”

Harry's mouth fell open, but Eric just smiled at him smugly and drew back the curtain to go. “I'll see you tomorrow, Harry,” he said confidently with a small wink and then was gone, leaving Harry alone to gather whatever was left of his thoughts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra especial thanks to my betas: DustyWolf and Wayfarer_Tree! I cannot express how helpful they were. This chapter would simply not have happened without them.


	36. Cut Off Even in the Blossoms of My Sin

The next afternoon, Harry lay in bed thinking.

He lay on his stomach and crossed his arms in front of him on the mattress to rest his chin there, contemplating the phial of headache potion Remus had given him. It sat on the nightstand in among the many things Harry had found in the pockets of Remus' cardigan. He'd included it with all the rest of his mementoes, arranging them in a kind of shrine to the man. (Which he was certain couldn't be healthy.)

It seemed wrong to use it for the purpose he was considering. Besides, if he did use it, then he wouldn't _have_ it. And returning the empty bottle to the collection of keepsakes seemed even worse than using it in the first place. Finally, Harry reached over and plucked it from the table, twisting the phial in his fingers and watching as the thick, milky fluid coated the inside of the glass. He carefully pulled the stopper and picked up a drop of it with his fingertip, sliding it between his thumb and forefinger. He shivered. It seemed as if it would certainly do the job.

Quite beside the fact of where he'd gotten it, though, was Harry even ready to take this step? He'd just had his first proper sexual experience the night before. It seemed like the progression should be slower, a gradual accumulation of encounters that eventually culminated in what Eric had suggested. Harry knew he craved it, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. He wasn't sure he should.

Harry rolled onto his back and thought of Remus. Technically, he'd known the man for years, but he'd only really started to become close to him this Summer. It hadn't actually been that long at all, and Harry began to wonder if he really felt as strongly about him as he seemed to. Were his feelings genuine, or was he blowing them out of proportion? Did he want Remus simply because he couldn't have him? Or perhaps he was only clinging to this grief to avoid confronting others; because this one was safer, threatening only his heart and not his sanity.

Harry held the phial up to the light and thought about Eric. Did his feelings for Remus even matter when it came to this? This was nothing. All it meant to Harry was a new experience, a pleasurable distraction. And in the darkness of the alcove, Eric could be anyone Harry wanted him to be. Well, he could be if Harry could stopper the boy's mouth, that is. Harry imagined doing just that and felt himself flush, reaching a hand down to adjust his suddenly ill-fitting jeans. He could easily envision those full, practised, incessantly-speaking lips stretched around him. 

Harry abruptly sat up and slipped off the bed, pacing back and forth a bit to calm himself. It was too early in the day for that passtime. He should go down to the Common Room and look for Hermione, anyway. No doubt, she'd be curious how things went the night before. Harry chuckled to himself and shook his head. He certainly wasn't going to give a play-by-play, but he felt he could confidently tell her that it had gone well. He looked down at the phial of potion in his hand and only hesitated for a moment before slipping it into the pocket of his jeans.

Hermione spotted him as soon as he stepped from the staircase and sat the book she'd been reading aside. “So?” she asked excitedly. “How'd it go?”

Harry gave her a bashful grin and shrugged as he rounded the sofa and took a seat beside her. “It...you know, it went well. It was nice,” he told her. And he realized it had been. Exceedingly. He smiled to himself, wondering what this evening might have in store.

But if Harry thought Hermione would be pleased by his report, he was apparently wrong. She eyed him shrewdly. “Harry,” she began carefully. “If it really went so well, why are you still wearing _that?_ ”

Harry's smile faded, his feelings a little hurt. He wasn't ready to let go of 'that' yet. Harry pouted, burrowing his hands into the deep pockets of the cardigan and hugging it to him as if he were afraid she might try to take it from him. “It's not like I wore it on my date,” he said sulkily. “Besides, Eric doesn't even know what it is.”

“Yes, but that's hardly the point,” she told him, lightly pursing her lips.

Harry furrowed his brow at her. He didn't especially appreciate getting this unsolicited relationship advice from someone who was snogging her recently deceased boyfriend's arch-nemesis, but he refrained from saying so. “Just back off it, will you, Hermione?” he said, somewhat whingingly. “I won't wear it forever. I'm just not ready yet,” he finished softly.

She shook her head, looking sorry for him but not in a very compassionate way. “It's not healthy, Harry,” she sighed.

“Yeah, well. So I'm a little sick in the head,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. “So what? I think I'm rather entitled.”

“I'm just worried about you, is all,” she told him, though she didn't quite sound it. Harry gave her a scathing look.

“Oh, come off it, Hermione,” he said peevishly. “You just disapproved of it, _is all_.”

“And you can't see why I should?” she argued, becoming as annoyed as he clearly was. “Harry _,_  Remus is a wonderful man, but he's old enough to be your _father,_ ” she whispered, glancing self-consciously at the few other people loitering in the Common Room.

“Yeah? And Draco and his gang hunted us all down and corralled us like cattle in Umbridge's office last year,” Harry spat, annoyance turning to proper anger. “Not to mention he tried to have Buckbeak killed out of spite. _Really_ , Hermione, do you want to argue about choices in romantic partners? Because Remus seems like a far lesser evil than that prat you're seeing.”

Hermione was hurt, but angry enough herself not to give over to it. “You don't know him as well as you think, Harry,” she said coolly.

“And maybe you've just conveniently forgotten all the terrible shit he's done because you're jealous I'd rather snog our old Defence Against the Dark Arts professor,” he snapped, far too loudly for the setting. A couple of people glanced over, but Harry couldn't care less.

Harry had officially gone too far. Hermione gathered her things, stuffing them roughly into her satchel.

“Just when I thought we were getting on again,” she said, almost to herself, fighting back tears. She practically leapt from the sofa. “Go ahead and cling to that ratty old jacket if you want, Harry. It's the closest you'll get to him. I just hope you figure that out and let him go before you ruin things with Eric.”

She started to go, but he took hold of her sleeve to stop her and stood so he could talk without the necessity of shouting. “You think I give two shits about Eric? He's a pretty face and a willing cock,” Harry whispered, aware he was just being mean now but not caring. “There's nothing to _ruin_ , Hermione. I'm just passing time and getting laid.”

She yanked her sleeve from his fingers. “Well then, I hope you enjoy it,” she spat.

“I don't doubt that I will!” he shouted after her as she crawled through the Portrait Hole. The whole Common Room was staring at him. “Bugger off and mind your own business,” he told them before stomping toward the Portrait Hole himself.

Harry brooded for the rest of the afternoon, showing up that evening at Snape's offices in a foul mood. He seemed to not be the only one. When Snape answered the door, he was decidedly less friendly than usual. Well, he'd never _been_ what one might consider friendly, but he was definitely less benign. Harry stood, rigid and uncomfortable, as Snape leaned in to examine him, nostrils flared.

“ _What?_ ” Harry said. But Snape did not answer. He only snorted in apparent disgust, stepping aside to allow Harry entrance. Harry gave him a disgruntled, sideways glance as he passed but didn't comment.

Once in the Potions Lab, Snape set Harry's tub of washing by the sink. It was already twice as full as usual since he'd missed the previous day's detention. Then Snape disappeared and returned bearing several additional cauldrons, adding them to the lot. Harry ran a hand over his face and sighed. Snape seemed to intend to keep him there all night. So much for new experiences. “Have I done something to piss you off?” Harry asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

Snape clearly did not care for Harry's tone or informality, but he didn't bother to correct him, he just reflected it back at Harry. “I don't know, Harry. Would you like to tell me just what you've been _doing_ lately? I'm sure I can find _something_ to disapprove of,” he groused, sweeping past Harry to station himself at a worktable and bottle some potion. Harry bit his tongue and turned to his tub, snatching up his tools and attacking a cauldron with them. He'd just get this over with as fast as he could and hope he was finished before Eric gave up on him.

But then Harry noticed which potion Snape happened to be ladling into phials, and his mood turned from perturbed to contemplative.

There was one construction in Snape's laboratory that Harry hadn't yet had the chance to quiz him on. It was by far the most elaborate, and it sat closest to the cot in the far corner as if Snape had to check on it during the night. By process of elimination, Harry was fairly certain what it was. He washed a few phials, throwing mindfulness out the window, and watched Snape from the corner of his eye. There was too much metal and glass between them for Harry to get a proper look. Finally, he worked up his nerve and just asked outright.

“So, which potion is that, then?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“None of your business,” Snape replied curtly, not bothering to look up from his task.

Harry wasn't deterred. “It's the one you make for Cobbleshot, isn't it?” he said, innocently scrubbing out a flask. Snape snapped a narrowed gaze at Harry. “What's it called?”

“What part of none of you bloody business didn't you understand, Potter?” Snape replied acidly. He held the phial he worked on to the light to measure the dose. Harry spotted the ruby gleam of it before Snape lowered and stoppered it, setting the finished product in a stand to fill the next phial. Harry was satisfied for now, but he determined to get more out of Snape eventually. The Potions Master seemed to notice Harry's wandering attention. “You aren't working properly, by the way,” he added in an irritated mutter.

Harry stopped working altogether and sighed. He was so tired of being barked at by people. He missed Remus suddenly. Well, he always missed Remus, but the feeling was sharper just then. He missed going and having tea and talking about his day. He missed having someone kind telling him that things would work out and to keep his chin up. Now, all he had was Snape; and test tubes and deliberate not-thinking; intentional avoidance of whatever was bothering him. Which had been nice enough at first but was starting to wear thin. Snape didn't seem to mind waxing about the poetry of potion-making or the properties of exotic ingredients. But Harry thought it might be nice for once to talk with him about something less educational, less impersonal. Hell, it looked like he was going to be there for a while, anyway. He'd give mindfulness a go later. Despite Snape’s irascible mood, Harry started talking.

“So, Hermione and I had another fight today,” Harry said, just as if Snape had asked. The man huffed and paused in his ladling, glaring at Harry as he mildly scrubbed beakers. Just when Snape seemed to have contented himself that the boy was done babbling and went to resume his chore, Harry continued. “It just really sucks, because we'd only made up last night,” Harry explained. “And it really felt like we were okay again, y'know? But then we were at each other's throats again this afternoon.”

“Mr. Potter,” Snape began with a sigh, laying aside his tools. He looked as though he was about to scold Harry for deliberately ignoring his meditation practice, but something made him pause. He fidgeted uncomfortably as if he was highly unaccustomed to this conversation thing, though he eventually seemed to tamp down most of his irritation. “Again?” he said finally, going back to his work while they chatted. “I wasn't aware you'd been quarrelling.”

“ _Oh, yeah_ ,” Harry said, smiling to himself. He couldn't believe Snape was playing along, and it was almost endearing. “Ever since I caught her about to snog Draco Malfoy, we haven't gotten on well at all.”

Snape spilled some of the potion he was funnelling into his phial. His eyes cut to Harry, slitted and sharp as daggers. “Say that again,” he demanded. Harry almost chuckled. He was glad he wasn't the only one to have that reaction.

“Draco and Hermione. They're dating. Or something. Haven't you seen them in the Great Hall?”

“No. I haven't been on duty for some time. I've had other obligations,” he said, so distractedly that Harry stopped his scrubbing and looked over at the man. Snape looked highly troubled, staring blankly at the empty air in front of him, deep in thought.

“Hey. You okay?” Harry asked, actually concerned.

“How long?” Snape demanded, suddenly very present, fixing Harry with an unsettling scowl.

“Officially?” said Harry, laying down his things and turning to Snape. He rested his hip against the sink and crossed his arms in contemplation. “Little over a week? But apparently they'd been working up to it since term started,” Harry added, distaste thick in his voice. Snape abruptly lay down his own things, not bothering to clean up or put them in their proper place, which Harry had never seen him do. He wiped his hands hurriedly on a towel and tossed it to the floor, sweeping around the table and past Harry, heading for the door.

“I must speak with the Headmaster,” he said, stopping at the foot of the stairs and turning to Harry who was just standing at the sink, puzzled. “What are you doing?” Snape demanded impatiently. “Detention is over. _Get out_.”

Harry was surprised. He'd assumed he'd be left to finish his work while Snape stuck his head in a floo. “What about...?” he said, gesturing to the tub of dirty glass.

“ _Leave_ it,” Snape said through clenched teeth, starting up the stairs with Harry rushing to follow. “Go somewhere. Anywhere. Just _get out_.” Then he paused and suddenly turned back to Harry, eyes narrowed. “ _No,_ ” he said firmly, changing his mind. “Go to your Dormitory. Stay there.”

 _Not bloody likely_ , Harry thought, trying to keep up with the Potions Master, who seemed to be in quite a hurry. Harry was very aware of the hardness of the phial through the fabric of his trouser pocket. He wasn't sure what had gotten Snape's knickers in a twist, but he had plans, and he intended to keep them.

Snape veritably shoved Harry through the floo, and Harry came out in Gryffindor with a stumble, startling a couple of students on the sofa. Slightly embarrassed, he muttered an apology and made for his room. Harry sat on his bed, puzzling over Snape's behaviour. Something about Draco and Hermione had troubled him enough to go to the Headmaster about it. But after his exchange with Hermione that afternoon, Harry had washed his hands of the affair. She would have to find out the hard way that leopards don't easily change their spots. It'd serve her right, Harry thought.

But then again, what if Snape sensed some danger in the relationship? Harry couldn't help remembering Voldemort's vision, but he contented himself that, while inside the Castle wards, nothing could hurt Hermione. Well, not in _that_ way.

Harry quickly pulled out his Map to assure himself that Hermione was still inside the Castle and in no immediate harm. He found her almost instantly in her dorm room with Parvati. Harry heaved a sigh of relief. Now that he knew she was safe, Harry allowed himself to be annoyed with her again. Whatever Snape suspected, Harry would let him and the Headmaster handle it. Harry had other things to be getting on with.

He fished the phial from his pocket, staring at it as if it were some kind of time bomb. Curfew was fast approaching. Harry told himself he'd made up his mind, but the whole thing still seemed unreal, almost like he'd determined to go visit Santa Claus at the North Pole rather than deciding on losing his virginity in a dark hole-in-the-wall to a boy he barely knew. But this wasn't just some fantasy. This was really about to happen. Harry knew he wasn't going to back out, but he still hadn't made peace with it. He wandered over to his dorm room window, staring thoughtfully out over the grounds. Then, he happened to glance up at the moon.

He realised, with a pang, that it was full, and Harry's mood took a significant blow. He swallowed uncomfortably, imagining Remus out there somewhere right now, at the mercy of the wolf, having refused the comfort of the Wolfsbane which Snape no longer brewed. No longer brewed at Remus' request. Because of Harry. It was almost too much for him, and he felt mildly ill. Harry leaned against his window ledge, trying not to envision Remus accruing more scars, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

Harry pulled the phial out again and held it up to the light of the moon. It was beautiful in a way, though the context soured it. Would Remus be upset if he knew what Harry was about to do, he wondered? No doubt hooking up with a practical stranger would concern him, but what Harry really wondered was whether Remus would begrudge him being with someone else, regardless of the circumstances.

He secretly hoped he might be jealous. Harry felt selfish thinking such things at a time like this. But there was no other time for it. The hour had come. Harry tucked the phial resolutely back into his pocket, not entirely comfortable with his decision, but comfortable in the fact that it had been made.

Bugger it all. Harry _was_ going to meet Eric tonight--with the intention of getting properly laid--and he forbid himself from thinking of Remus while he did so. Remus was beyond his reach, entirely by his own choice, and Harry could not mourn him forever. He stripped off his cardigan and draped it over his footboard, stroking it lightly but finally turning his back on it. He wouldn't say Hermione had been right, but she hadn't entirely been wrong. Harry wasn't going to deny himself for the sake of what could have been. He quickly spruced himself in the mirror, casting a critical eye to his outfit but deciding that it probably wasn't going to remain intact for long, anyway. In fact, he meant to ensure it didn't.

He made his way to the alcove with a determined step. Harry didn't waiver at the wall-hanging at all this time, instead drawing it back without breaking stride. Eric's tongue was in his mouth almost before the curtain had a chance to fall to a close behind him. Harry wasn't even particularly surprised, and he only hesitated a moment to bring a hand to that glorious head of hair and return the boy's enthusiasm.

“I've been thinking of you all day,” Eric admitted when they finally came up for air.

“Nice to know I made an impression,” Harry said with a cockiness he didn't quite feel. But he was already bursting, and Eric's hands were already inside Harry's clothes, making him squirm. He had a definite feeling this evening would go just as smoothly as the last.

“Oh, you have no idea,” the boy replied, slipping a hand all the way into the back of Harry's pants, causing Harry to ball a fist in Eric's shirt with a snarl. “That's it!” he said as he gave Harry's cheek a firm squeeze. “You aren't like the other boys, Harry. All they want is affection and tenderness,” he sneered. “But you,” Eric went on, smiling lecherously. “You just _want._ You aren't afraid of a little roughness, a little passion.”

“I suppose, _ah!..._ it comes of almost dying on a regular basis,” Harry panted. He wasn't even doing anything besides grasping and gasping, and Eric was already looking like he was half a minute away from tearing Harry's clothes off with his teeth.

“Whatever the reason, I've been waiting for you for a long time, Harry Potter,” he said. Then, with the only prelude being Eric hurriedly casting the sound-dampening spell Harry had used the night before, the eager Hufflepuff dropped to his knees.

Oh, Eric made things so magnificently _simple_.

Harry allowed himself to be shoved by the hips against the wall, never taking his eyes off the boy as he opened Harry's trousers, freeing his throbbing erection with such smooth efficiency that it could only be described as talent. Eric sighed happily at Harry's crotch and Harry tried in vain to remember how to breathe. “Gryffindors always do have the biggest cocks,” Eric informed him dreamily. Harry gave something between a groan and a growl and pulled the blonde hair from the boy's face, making sure it did not impede his view. Eric looked up at him with smouldering eyes. “Are you ready for this?” he asked. But Harry wasn't sure why he'd bothered, because he gave Harry no chance to respond.

Harry wasn't entirely certain, either, how his legs continued to hold him. He curled, gasping, over Eric's head, digging his fingers into the boy's shoulders as he found himself enveloped in warm, wet heat. There were so many sensations, Harry couldn't even catalogue them all. He got vague impressions of rough tongue and silky cheeks, even a glancing of teeth. But by some miracle, he did not instantly empty himself into the boy's mouth. Eric sucked him firmly, drawing back only for a moment before taking his length entirely. When Harry felt himself hit the back of the boy's throat, he cursed aloud.

“ _Fuck!”_

It was far too loud for the spell to muffle entirely, but he couldn't stop it from escaping him once more as he sank his fingers into Eric's hair, unsure if he wanted to pull the boy off of him or force himself even deeper. This was clearly not meant to last very long. Harry was half a second from coming, his brain completely disabled, nothing in the world existing outside of this hot, wet suction, when he felt a hand grasp him by the back of the neck. Before he could process this impossibility, as both of Eric's were still bruising the hollows of his hips, Harry found himself suddenly outside the alcove, stumbling across the corridor. The cold chill of the open air on his still wet cock was as abrupt and stimulating as the heat of Eric's mouth had been.

An invisible force slammed him against the far wall, pinning him there. Harry clawed at what felt like strong, thin arms, struggling to breathe for a very different reason than a moment ago. Then Professor Snape's head appeared from thin air, mere inches from Harry's face, looking more livid than Harry could ever remember seeing it. Harry flinched.

“ _What in_ _**hell** _ _do you think you are doing_?” Snape snarled. Harry could feel him shaking with rage through the invisibility cloak, which Snape then shed completely in short order. “I thought I told you to _stay in your fucking room!_ ”

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Eric, who gave him an apologetic look before scrambling hurriedly down the corridor. Snape seemed not to notice or else not to care.

Despite his shock, or perhaps because of it, Harry's body had not yet switched understanding from violent pleasure to violent threat. His erection, which surely should have withered at the Potion Master's sudden appearance, became more aching than ever. Snape's expression was so intense, and so much of him leaned against Harry's body, Harry might have moaned if the pressure on his chest had allowed him to draw sufficient breath.

Harry was quite sure he'd gone completely mad, because he had the impulse to claim the snarling lips so close to his own. It turned his stomach slightly. Severus Snape had never struck him as sexual before, but suddenly, in Harry's state of heightened arousal, he practically dripped with it. Harry could not stop his lips from searching for Snape's and was immensely grateful that it was physically impossible for him to close the distance. Hopefully, Snape would mistake his inexplicable lust for oxygen deprivation.

Snape looked Harry up and down and seemed to become aware of the situation all at once, sweeping backwards and letting Harry fall to the floor. The young man was disconcerted. Lack of breath had made his head fuzzy, and everything had happened too quickly. He looked up at Snape, slightly baffled, as he found his feet; trying not to see the man through the lens of desire but not being able to help himself. Snape had just pinned him roughly to a wall, and Harry couldn't say he hadn't somehow enjoyed it.

Snape looked apprehensive, then flustered, then angry again. “Put that away,” he told Harry sternly, pointing at the thing which still hung semi-erect from Harry's trousers as he swayed on his feet. Harry was more than slightly mortified and turned to the side to tuck himself back in. “It's a little late for modesty, Harry,” Snape pointed out witheringly. He strode over to the wall-hanging and drew it back. “In here. Now.” Harry baulked and Snape lowered his head and glowered at him. “We need to talk,” he hissed, his voice taking on a dangerous tint. “ _Now,_ ” he added.

Harry was glad Eric had bolted when he'd had the chance. He shuffled, red-faced, back into the nook, unable to look at Snape as he passed. The sound-dampening spell from before was still in place, so perhaps his imminent arse-chewing would not be heard by _all_ the Castle's inhabitants. Harry took a seat on the couch, staring resolutely at the floor as Snape paced the length of the alcove. The distance was so short, this might have been comical if Harry wasn't presently so horrified by the situation.

Snape knew exactly what he'd been doing. Perhaps he even saw. And Harry had no doubt Snape had been able to hear him cry out as it had happened. What Harry didn't understand was how Snape knew where to find him, or why he was looking for him in the first place. _Or_ why he was wearing an invisibility cloak. 

It was the last question that loosened his tongue. “Is that mine?” Harry asked, affronted.

“ _Not at the moment_ ,” Snape said belligerently, still pacing.

“Where'd _you_ get it? I gave it to Dumbledore.”

“Who gave it to me. To keep an eye on you while he's away.”

Harry's humiliation was making room for proper offence by this point. “What? Wait. You were spying on me?” he asked incredulously.

“Obviously, you _need_ a bloody keeper!”

“What for?! For Merlin's sake! To make sure I don't get a bloody blow job along with half the rest of this school?” Harry demanded angrily.

“ _Exactly!_ ” Snape hissed, finally stopping his pacing to glare at Harry.

Harry's embarrassment was a thing of memory. He had been doing nothing different than most boys his age. Granted, it wasn't usually with that kind of partner. But they'd denied him so many things, imposed so much extra on him, that this really was a little too much for Harry. He shot to his feet. “Listen, I don't know that it's anyone's goddamn business if I get laid. It's not like I was hurting anyone!”

Snape lunged at him, jaw clenched and hand raised as if he meant to strangle Harry, but he regained his self-control at the last moment. After a brief contemplation, it looked as if he ruled out striking him, too. Harry hadn't even flinched. “Sit down,” Snape said menacingly. When Harry made no move to do so, Snape added, “ _NOW!_ ” and Harry didn't so much sit as the ferocity in Snape's voice and expression turned his knees to putty and he collapsed. Snape took a calming breath. “ _You_ are not half this school, Harry,” he explained with forced calm. “Certain safeguards have been put in place, certain spells that are only truly effective while the subject maintains their 'innocence'.”

Harry looked at Snape sceptically. “What are you saying? I can't have sex because it will break a few _spells?”_

“Not just a few, Harry,” Snape said wearily, taking a heavy seat as far from Harry as he could manage. “And they aren't mere spells. They are so much more.” Snape looked at him, apparently finally just seeing a teenaged boy who was doing what came naturally. He shook his head with something like pity. “Harry, what recent generations seem to have forgotten is that sex is not just sex. Not for a Wizard. It is a Magical Rite of Passage.” He looked as if he were the last person on Earth who would want to discuss this subject with Harry, but there was nothing for it. “There is some magic that works best on virgins, particularly protective magic. Alternatively, there is magic that only comes into its full potency when virginity is lost. But virginity isn't a switch that one flips. It can be eroded. Intercourse is simply the point of no return. It rarely matters these days, so people forget. Magic changes. It evolves. But the basis of all magic goes back to a time when purity was paramount and evil was absolute. The world was not always so grey.”

Harry digested this, still disgruntled but coming around. Apparently, they were just looking out for him.

“When you were born,” Snape explained. “Or rather, when it was realised what your destiny could be, several steps were taken. Old Magic was used, Harry. Potent, primitive magic like the kind that saved your life the night your parents died. While it can be as simple as a Mother's love, it's rarely that _easy_. But it was necessary. You didn't think we dropped you off with a bunch of Muggles with nothing more to protect you than a baby blanket, did you?”

Harry was now simply depressed. His want had been so simple. So easily and willingly fulfilled. But as with so many things, Harry had to abstain...out of duty. One he never asked for and didn't want, but one that was his nonetheless. “Why didn't someone just tell me all this before?” he said, weary to his soul.

Snape looked uncomfortable. “It was considered. But it only recently became a possi-” Snape had apparently chosen his words poorly and quickly corrected himself, “Became an _issue_. And partly, we were afraid that if we told you you couldn't, you'd do it for spite.”

“You all really thought I'd go and...just to spit in your eye?” Harry said, offended. Snape sighed.

“Alright, _I_ thought that,” he admitted peevishly. “But when it became an imperative, you were already dealing with so much that the Headmaster wasn't sure how you'd handle another revelation. And another prohibition.”

Harry was becoming increasingly annoyed. “When it became an imperative?” he demanded. “Just when did you all figure out when that was? No one was following me on my dates with Cho. Or were you, and I simply didn't notice?”

Snape worried the fabric of his sleeve between the fingers of one hand. “There is something else, perhaps, you should know,” Snape admitted with much hesitance. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose but motioned for Snape to continue. “Considering the importance of your purity, another spell was cast.”

“Of course, it was,” Harry muttered. Snape scowled.

“It was not simply to ensure the protections, it was a protection in itself. Little was known about your relatives or their possible... _inclinations_. It may, however, have had some unintended consequences,” he added in a mutter to the floor, seeming unable to look at Harry as he broke the news.

Oh, this was just getting better and better. “Just get on with it, Snape,” Harry said sneeringly, causing the Potions Master to toss him an indignant scowl. “What is it?”

Snape's tone turned less sympathetic. “It _was_ a kind of magical chastity belt. It was intended to deflect all sexual interest,” he explained flatly.

Harry was confused. Angry, but mostly confused. “But I've had loads of interest. Just this term. Hell, just this _week_ I've gotten about ten heart-doodled propositions. And I don't think they were _all_ tongue-in-cheek. Not to mention-”

“You turned sixteen,” Snape said, abruptly cutting him off, perhaps not keen to hear the details of the nature or extent of Harry's romantic life. “The spell broke automatically when you reached the legal age of consent as determined by the Ministry of Magic.”

Harry blinked at him.

 _Sixteen_.

Harry gasped as a cascade of memories inundated him.

 _"It's that_ damned spell _. You turned sixteen. I just never thought it would ever affect_ me."

 _"I wanted to like you_ that _way. But something wouldn't let me. Not until this summer when you arrived at Grimmauld Place_."

_"We knew there would be complications when the spell broke. I'm almost surprised some issue did not arise before now."_

So many things were clicking into place, but not enough of them. Harry looked back up at Snape, disconcerted.

“While I would not suggest you pursue a career in modelling,” Snape drawled, “you are not an unattractive young man, Harry.” It was an admission that seemed to cost Snape, and he was undoubtedly uncomfortable voicing it. “It's simply that, before your sixteenth birthday, no one was allowed to notice it. And to those who knew you and were _so inclined,”_ he said a shade sarcastically, “the contrast was somewhat striking, I believe,” he finished with a mutter.

Harry spared a glancing thought to Snape's inclinations but realised his bizarre transference of desire from earlier had simply not worn off entirely. Which was bizarre in itself. “But Cho. And Ginny?” Harry asked, baffled. Snape snorted.

“When Ginny Weasley first met you, she was ten and you were a celebrity. Then you became her personal saviour a year later. That isn't attraction, Harry,” he said witheringly. “It's idol worship. And Miss Chang, I believe, was simply a confused young girl, reassigning her feelings for her lost boyfriend to the last person to see him alive; the only other person who seemed to be as affected by his loss as she was.” Snape sighed theatrically. “Thus is the nature of the romances of young people, Harry. Hormones and confusion,” he sneered.

Harry sat quietly for a while, processing this new information. He couldn't help but think of all the times he'd seen couples holding hands, overheard late night trysts as he snuck through the Castle, secretly wishing he could find something similar for himself but perhaps having internalised the opinions of the Dursleys who had always treated him as lesser and unworthy. As unwanted and unwantable.

Which made Harry realise something else.

“You said it was a protection. From my relatives. You said it had unintended consequences,” Harry said accusingly. Snape had the decency to look somewhat shamefaced.

“As we would not have access to you again for some time, and since the effects can gradually weaken, the spell initially had to be considerably strong. At the time it was cast, it made you rather distasteful in general, to be honest.” Harry's brow furrowed and he glared at Snape, who shifted uncomfortably. “And it may have had a stronger effect on those unaccustomed to the influence of magic as a matter of course.”

Harry was officially pissed off. “Are you telling me my _entire shitty childhood_ \--all the rejection and disgust and ill-treatment I lived through at the hands of the Dursleys: being locked in cupboards and starved and beaten and bullied--was because I was wearing some hyper-potent invisible chastity belt?! Some bloody fucking _protection_ ,” Harry spat.

Snape looked at him, somewhat surprised and more than somewhat troubled. Was it possible he hadn't been aware of the details of Harry's life before coming to Hogwarts? “It is one possibility,” he replied with a defiant scowl of his own. “But perhaps better than the possibility of being _molested by your uncle_ ,” he snapped. “Or worse.”

Harry shook his head disbelievingly. He had the impulse to put his fist through something; to take Remus' Hall Pass and tell this place and all these people to fuck straight off; to live his own life and forget Voldemort and the Headmaster, and Remus and Snape and Hermione and the whole bloody lot of them! To _go_ where he wanted and _do_ what he wanted. And by gods, to get bloody laid if that's what he chose to do!

“I can't believe no one has told me until now. And that it was _you_ of all people!” Harry snapped.

Snape was displeased by Harry's insolence but couldn't seem to fault him. “Harry,” he began, his tone part irritation, part apology, and double parts exasperation. But Harry cut him off. He was beyond upset. Almost upset enough to cry in front of Snape but not quite.

“You all treat me like I'm still a child! Even _you_ ,” he sneered, “with all your talk of my _right to choose_.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry. “When did you...?” But the thought was cut short by the sound of someone approaching in the corridor. Snape cursed under his breath and peeked irritably out of the wall-hanging. “It's only Filch,” he said, almost to himself. But he continued to watch as the caretaker hobbled his way toward them, grumbling under his breath. Despite the distraction of his brooding thoughts, Harry caught snatches of 'ruddy wards' and 'bloody troublemakers'. Snape looked troubled. “We'll finish this later, Harry. Stay here for now,” he instructed him distractedly, slipping out of the alcove.

Harry would be damned. He was tired of being left in the dark, waiting for others to decide what he should know and when. He snatched up the invisibility cloak Snape had left lying on the couch and threw it on, following Snape into the corridor.

“You're out quite late, Mr. Filch,” Snape said by way of greeting, startling the man who hadn't noticed him approach from behind. The caretaker swung his lantern around to see Snape properly.

“Yessir, Professor Snape. It's the ruddy wards,” he explained. “Someone's been tamperin with 'em again. Bloody kids,” he grumbled under his breath. “I've just come to investigate. But you'd have thought I'd 'ave seen the buggers trying to escape by now. It's just up here,” he motioned with his lantern. Snape looked unsettled. In that direction was the dungeons, and if Snape had just been there on his way here to assail Harry, he would have seen any troublemakers.

“Show me,” he demanded of Filch.

“Aright. Like I said, it's just this way,” and he shuffled off in that direction.

Harry moved past them, not caring to wait for Filch's slow shuffle, looking through the various windows and exits for any disturbances in the wards. And then Harry saw something and jogged forward to investigate before the others arrived.

The full moon was covered by heavy clouds, and the black shape just the other side of the last archway was large but nondescript. It looked hairy from a distance, and at first, Harry thought some creature might have wandered in from the Forbidden Forest, as happened occasionally. But then, the outer wards should have prevented that. Harry began feeling uneasy. The closer he came to the thing, the more reluctant his steps became. He was practically trembling as he came to a full stop before the archway, Snape and Filch still some ways behind.

The mass had a more familiar shape this close up. But Harry didn't want his assumption to be correct. He paced a bit, feeling increasingly sick to his stomach. Finally, he pulled out his wand.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said in a barely audible whisper, tears already standing in his eyes.

There, a few feet from him beyond an impenetrable barrier, lay his good friend Hagrid. The half-Giant was pale, almost grey, as if long dead. Or else drained of all blood; he did have a shrunken look to him. Harry stood and watched for a long moment, but no breath lifted Hagrid's barrel of a chest. Tears streamed down Harry's cheeks and he fell to his knees, wand still aloft, just staring.

“'Ere, look at that!” Filch exclaimed, seeing only the light from the tip of Harry's wand. “There's something fishy here!”

“Mr. Filch, do _shut up_ ,” Snape said harshly, increasing his pace down the hall.

Harry could hear the commotion but it didn't register. All he noticed was the something pinned to Hagrid's hairy jacket. It was a note; one Harry could read even from that distance.

**Have you thought on it, Harry?**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to DustyWolf and Wayfarer_Tree! They continue to kindly ensure these most important chapters don't suck. You girls are lifesavers!


	37. More Grief to Hide Than Hate to Utter Love

The floor seemed to open beneath him and Harry felt like he was falling, drowning in his grief.

Harry had done this. His name was literally written all over it.

_Poor Hagrid._

This just kept happening, _would_ keep happening. And Harry still didn't have the power to stop it.

Frustration mingled with Harry's grief. He struck the wards with his fist, ignoring the resulting racket and the cries it elicited from the Caretaker. He wanted to reach his friend, damn it! He wanted to throw himself across his big, familiar chest and apologise. But no matter how hard Harry fought, Hagrid was beyond his reach. In so many ways, just out of reach.

Harry abandoned his wand, though it still glowed faintly as it rolled away from him, and beat at the wards with both hands. His fury eclipsed the pain in his hands as he struck them over and over. He was surprised at the damage the gelatinous substance could do as he noted his own blood smeared across it, having seeped through his cloak. It seemed to float in thin air. But Harry didn't care, he simply struck it again, harder, loosing a roar of anguish.

“Ghost!” Filch cried, eyes bulging. He'd run the rest of the way and now stood somewhere behind Harry with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. “We got ourselves another bloomin' poltergeist! Just what I need...”

By this point, of course, Snape had spotted what lay beyond the bloodstained wards. “Do stop being an idiot, Mr. Filch!” he growled over the noise. “Go find the Deputy Headmistress.  _Now!”_  Snape thundered when the man did not immediately move. Filch scrambled to comply, jogging back the way they had just come.

Harry sobbed, though the sound was lost in the unending sheet-metal ring of the offended wards. He barely registered the fact that someone was trying to take hold of him, to attempt to restrain him. The cloak was stripped away and Snape was on his knees beside Harry, trying to pin his arms.

“Harry! Stop this nonsense!” he hissed in his ear.

“It's  _my fault_ ,” Harry keened, still crying, still fighting.

“Not everything can be about you, Harry! You're just being a narcissist,” Snape barked quietly in a way Harry supposed might have been an attempt at comfort. “Now desist with this pointless- ”

“ _Look at his coat,_ ” Harry said, abruptly giving up his struggles and slumping where he knelt. Apprehensively, Snape released a now docile though still devastated Harry and stood to peer into the darkness, growing suddenly grave. Harry thought he could tell Snape was trying not to be angry with him but wasn't quite managing it.

“What does it mean?” he asked, a hint of steel in his voice. “What haven't you told us?”

This was not how Harry had wanted to confess this. This was not why. He supposed he'd hoped that he'd tell Remus eventually. Or Snape, in better circumstances, if they managed to build a rapport. But he confessed it now anyway, guilt curdling his gut.

“Voldemort. He...”  _Gods_. If Harry had told someone this before, would Hagrid still be alive? He slid from his knees to sit dejectedly on the floor, turning his back on the horror outside. “That night in Dumbledore's office, after I passed out, I couldn't keep him out,” he admitted in a rush as if the only way to make it through this was all at once and as quickly as possible. “He told me if I didn't stop fighting...” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to relive that horrible encounter, not wanting to recall that oily voice or the vision of Hermione being tortured. “Voldemort said he'd let my loved ones live, even me, if I just let him...” Harry couldn't finish the thought, but Snape understood. He looked back out at Hagrid's still form, then back at Harry with genuine pity. “But I couldn't!” Harry cried, almost apologetic. “I couldn't just agree to do nothing! To not try to stop him! And so he said he'd kill you all one by one until...until I was just like  _him_ ,” Harry finished in an agonised whisper. He gave over to weeping again, silent but unceasing, not caring that Snape was there staring at him.

Hesitantly, Snape knelt beside Harry but clearly did not know what to do. His expression was of concern but also baffled discomfort. He lifted a hand as if he'd considered laying it on Harry's shoulder, but its fingers writhed as if he thought Harry might be caustic and was loath to actually touch him. “Harry,” Snape began uncertainly, when he was interrupted by a gravelly voice nearby.

“What's all this then, My Little Harry?” Cobbleshot asked, meandering up as if there was some entertainment just outside that they had gathered for instead of the long dead body of one of Harry's few remaining friends.

Snape swept to his feet, uncomfortable in the extreme. Harry wasn't sure if he was embarrassed to be seen potentially comforting a weeping teenager, or if he was wordlessly begging Cobbleshot for help as he was at a complete loss as to what to do about said weeping. It might have been a shade of both. Though, Cobbleshot was the least qualified person from which to seek this advice.

“Loraina,” Snape informed her rather matter-of-factly. “Unfortunately, it appears one of our colleagues has been discovered dead just outside the Castle wards.” You'd have thought Snape had told her that the kitchens would be serving meatloaf next Tuesday for all the emotion it elicited in her.

 _Outside the Castle wards._ Harry gasped and looked up at Cobbleshot, tears still streaming.

“It was her!” he said, working through the revelation aloud. It had been  _Cobbleshot_  Remus had been trying to warn him about that afternoon. Suddenly, it all made sense to him. “I know what she is. I've seen her leave the grounds. I've seen her come back into the Castle just here!”

“ _Harry_ ,” Snape said tersely, “you are mistaken.” He was trying not to sound harsh but there was still a warning in his tone. Cobbleshot simply watched the exchange with mild interest, showing neither offence nor admission.

“She's from the Romanian Coven. That's why she has that weird accent,” Harry went on. Snape looked at him, brow furrowed and mouth open, as if he wanted to shout at Harry to shut up already and was holding himself back. It was an expression that conveyed that the situation was delicate, but Harry didn't give a damn. “ _She's killed Hagrid_ , Snape. Just look at him!”

“Harry!” Snape barked, finally losing some of his composure. Harry felt like ripping out his hair in frustration. “You've had a shock and are not thinking clearly. You mustn't-”

“She's in league with Voldemort,  _don't you get that?”_

Cobbleshot's placid, almost-amused expression changed to murderous rage so quickly Harry could not mark the transformation. She snarled at him, her sharp, pointed teeth bared. Harry panicked, realised his wand lay on the floor still, and dove after it as Cobbleshot bore down on him. He knew he wasn't going to make it. But then Snape interceded, throwing himself between the two and restraining the woman. No longer in immediate danger, Harry slumped to the ground, grieved and shaken. He expected Snape to condemn her now that she'd shown her hand; to berate her, to charge her with her crimes and demand she accompany him to the Headmaster's office.

“The boy's a fool, Cobs!  _Leave him._ He doesn't know what he's saying.”

Harry gaped at them in disbelief.

Cobbleshot stopped struggling but did not tear her murderous gaze from Harry. “If I didn't need you,  _boy_ , I'd rip your throat out right here and watch you bleed to death, slung over the body of your fallen friend _,_ ” she spat. Harry stumbled to his feet away from her and struck the wards at his back, raising his wand. He'd never heard such malice, never seen such savage, cold fury on a human face before.

“Loraina, listen to me!” Snape said firmly, shaking her, trying to force her to meet his eye. She did so reluctantly. “Go back to your quarters and wait. Let me handle this,” he said more calmly, trying to sooth her. She looked at Snape finally and some affection infected her caustic expression. He released her experimentally, arms still raised in case he needed to restrain her again. He held out his palms. “I  _will_ deal with the boy. Just go. I'll talk to you after I've taken care of things.”

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. Refused to. It had to be some ploy, some act by a master spy to maintain his standing with the enemy. The Headmaster trusted Snape.  _Harry_ trusted him. Whatever Snape said to this monster now was not to be held against him if it saved Harry's skin, he decided. But it still galled.

Cobbleshot threw a scathing look at Harry but did as she was told, and Snape watched her until she was out of sight as if to be sure she wouldn't decide to come back and make good on her threat. Then, he turned to Harry. Their wretched expressions mirrored one another. Snape opened his mouth to speak when they both heard commotion further down the hall. Filch had found McGonagall and they were coming this way.

“Harry, don't say a word,” Snape warned, his eyes never leaving the approaching pair at the far end of the hall.

“But McGonagall-”

“ _Silencio,_ ” Snape said with a quick flick of his wand. Harry was enraged to find he couldn't speak. He released a barrage of soundless curses, but Snape ignored him and quickly retrieved the invisibility cloak, tossing it over the young man. Harry tried to rip it off but Snape took him roughly by the arms.

“For once, just  _trust_ me, Harry!” he hissed quietly. It was his eyes that convinced Harry to obey. They were imploring, not scowling. Harry glared at him but reluctantly pulled the cloak back over his head. “Wait for me in my office,” Snape instructed, “I'll be there shortly.” Then he straightened his robes and strode down the hall to meet Filch and McGonagall.

Harry turned toward the dungeons, doing as he was told though he wanted nothing more than to rush in the opposite direction and confess everything he knew or suspected to McGonagall. Then he heard her cry of dismay carry down the hall as Snape delivered the unfortunate news, and Harry changed his mind. He practically sprinted to Snape's office where he paced in front of the Potions Master's desk, still grieving but angry enough by far to push it aside. Harry didn't know what game Snape was playing or why Harry couldn't speak to anyone. Couldn't speak period! Not even to howl in frustration.

After what seemed like a small eternity, Snape arrived. Harry still wore his cloak, but somehow Snape, eyes to the floor, caught it as Harry passed and slipped it off. Harry didn't even break stride, he just tossed an aggressive glare up at Snape as he turned and paced back the other way. “Come with me, Harry,” the Potions Master said solemnly, almost kindly. It occurred to Harry that Snape might actually be grieving for Hagrid in some way, as well. But not the way Harry was, so he felt entitled to his bad attitude.

As soon as they crossed the hearth into Snape's quarters, the silencing charm vanished and Harry regained command of his voice. He did not yet use it, though. Harry waited until Snape unlocked the door with a wave of his wand so he could stomp into their Potions lab ahead of the man, whirling to face him when he reached the sink. “And why can't I talk to Professor McGonagall?” he demanded.

The man did not answer him. His gaze drifted from Harry's face. “You've ruined your hands again,” he observed, avoiding the question. Harry looked down at his split and bleeding fingers, barely registering that they belonged to him. 

Snape retrieved some of the healing salve he'd used before from a small cauldron nearby where he must brew it. Then, as he had done to his damaged nails before, Snape applied the goop to Harry's knuckles, gently working the tingling medicine into Harry's wounds. Harry felt disconnected from what was happening. Inside he was still angry and grief-stricken, but instead of raging and weeping, he was watching detachedly as Snape treated his bleeding hands. Treated them with much more gentleness than he had before, but Harry couldn't tell if that was because the wounds were more grievous, or…

“The situation is precarious,” Snape explained dispassionately as he worked, waking Harry from his thoughts. “The staff distrust Loraina. I couldn't have you making accusations until the Headmaster returns to keep the peace.” Snape finished his ministrations and walked away from Harry to clean his own hands on a towel, with Harry staring after the man, baffled.

All this, and Snape was worried about  _Cobbleshot?_

“ _Snape_ ,” Harry implored, approaching him. He suddenly wanted...he didn't know what. The Potions Master seemed to draw back slightly, and so Harry stopped before the man felt the need to step away. But Harry hadn't wanted to stop. His hands still tingled, still remembered Snape's touch. Harry wanted to reach for Snape as he would have for Remus. He didn't understand the impulse except that he was heartsore and drowning and needed something to cling to. “I can't,” Harry gasped, his tears returning. “ _I can't lose anyone else._ It could be Hermione next or Remus or...”

 _Or it could be Snape_. Harry realised that now that would be a blow almost as devastating.

“We have to stop him!”

“And just what do you think we've been attempting to do all these years?” Snape said, exasperated, though he eyed Harry with concern. Harry hugged his arms around his chest and bent at the waist, finding it difficult to breathe. “You are having an anxiety attack. You need a sedative.” Snape brushed past him and Harry only just resisted the impulse to snatch at him as he passed.

“I can't  _sleep_ ,” said Harry, properly hyperventilating now. “He has an accomplice inside the Castle and the Headmaster is away!”

“And just what in hell are  _you_ meant to do about it!” Snape snapped, then caught himself and reined in his temper. “Drink this bloody potion, Harry, before you fall over," he said thrusting a phial at him which Harry declined to accept. "The Headmaster is investigating an important matter. And Loraina is not an accomplice!” he added irritably. “We don't yet know anything about what happened to Hagrid.”

“She's a  _vampire,_ ” Harry said, walking quickly over to the fresh batch of Substisanguinus Snape had bottled earlier that evening and snatching up a phial, shaking it accusingly at him. “And you bloody well knew it! She's working with the enemy!”

“Harry, you're speaking of things about which you know absolutely nothing! You cannot accuse people without  _proof_.”

“ _Proof_ _?”_  Harry shouted. “She just threatened to rip out my throat!”

“And I can sympathise!” Snape shouted back, having seemingly reached his breaking point. “I've wanted to murder you a thousand times since the day we met! It's a  _natural reaction!”_

Harry took the phial in his hand and threw it forcefully against the wall. “Why is it no one ever listens to me?!”

Snape went white with rage. He seized Harry by the front of his shirt and slammed him back into the wall. “I am  _not_ the Headmaster and you will not break my things with impunity,” he said, his voice a spitting hiss. The action had been sudden and disorienting. Snape's face was inches from Harry's. His entire body pinned him to the wall behind them, very like it had in the corridor before. And Harry, riding a wave of grief and anger and desperation, did not have the energy to prevent his body, which had been denied earlier release, from reacting. Snape did not notice, he only saw Harry's stare glaze over and seemed to think the boy was not listening. Not relinquishing his shirt-front, Snape drew back just far enough to slap Harry across the face. It had not been meant to hurt, only to waken him, but that didn't mean it wasn't still violent.

“Snap out of it, Harry. This is a fucking  _war,”_ he snarled, voice low and menacing like the deep-throated growl of a big cat; which affected Harry in a wholly unexpected way, and certainly not the one in which Snape had intended. “What did you think happens to people in a war? They  _die_. Many of them. The only thing you should concern yourself with is how not to become one of them!” he whispered fiercely through clenched teeth.

And all Harry could think about, face stinging, heart broken, was how quickly Snape's tenderness had turned to aggression. So quickly Harry began to doubt he'd glimpsed the former at all. All Harry had wanted was to be listened to and to be taken seriously. He'd just lost yet another dear friend. He wanted to be reassured and comforted. But Harry might have known  _this_ man did not comfort. No. This man was not gentle. Not out of caring. He was clinical. Severe. Even at a time like this.  _Especially_ at a time like this.

Perhaps gentleness wasn't really what Harry needed anyway. Perhaps it wasn't really what he wanted. Though, Harry did remember very recently wanting something very specific from this man, and he was in just the mood to take it.

Harry wasn't some helpless little boy any longer. He stood almost as tall as Snape. And to the man's complete surprise, Harry snarled himself and took hold of the Potions Master's robe front, turning him quickly to reverse their position. Despite their equal size, Harry felt certain the only reason he'd managed it was because Snape was so shocked by the gesture, and Harry took advantage of its lingering by almost violently attacking Snape's mouth with his own.

The man's shock did not last long, however. He opened his mouth to object (something about hormones) but Harry simply took that opportunity to insert his tongue into Snape's mouth, smothering whatever words he'd meant to hiss. Harry kissed Snape hungrily, frantically, almost cutting his tongue on the man's sharp, uneven teeth but not letting that slow him as he bunched his fists even deeper in the man's robes. Harry felt Snape's hand on his shoulder, one on his chest.

And then Harry suddenly found himself on the floor. Not just on the floor but sliding across it to strike the opposite wall with surprising force, breath gone completely from the blow Snape had delivered to his ribcage. Harry coughed, sputtered, trying to determine which way was up. He looked over to Snape for reference, and the two glared at each other as Harry struggled to breathe again. Snape was struggling for breath himself, Harry noticed, his chest heaving. Harry could not read the mercurial expression on the man's face but thought he caught disgust and loathing. And anger, copious amounts of anger.

“Get out,” Snape hissed through clenched teeth, his hate-slitted eyes never leaving Harry as the boy fought his way to his feet. And Harry did leave, just as full of the anger and spite Snape blasted at him with each breath. But he wasn't leaving without what as his. He didn't rush as he stomped over to retrieve Sirius' invisibility cloak from where Snape had tossed it across his desk. He almost wanted the man to try and stop him, but Snape merely glared at him as he snatched it up, glared as Harry stalked back up the stairs without a backward glance and flooed away.

Harry did not go to Gryffindor Tower. He flooed instead to Remus' quarters.

All that was left in the tiny room was the threadbare sofa. Perhaps Remus had felt his sins had begun there as he and Harry had comforted one another--touched intimately if not sexually--and now couldn't bear the sight of it. Harry threw himself across it and wept. He crushed the cushion he used to sit on to his chest and screamed his anguish, over and over, until the cries faded into racking sobs that seemed to pull at every muscle in Harry's body, themselves eventually fading to a kind of whimper. And gradually, exhausted, Harry drifted off.

_Did you enjoy my gift?_

Harry was disgruntled that the voice had woken him just as he’d finally seemed to find some peace.

“I addressed it to you, did you get it?”

Harry was disoriented. Inexplicably, he found himself sitting at the end of a long, dark table in a dimly lit stone room. But that couldn’t be right. He dragged his sight up the length of the highly polished wood, and there he saw Voldemort at the far end, smiling as coldly as Harry felt inside. Harry stared at the monster but made no move to respond.

“So have you thought on it, Harry? Or would you like to know who's next?”

Harry refused to play the game this time. He imagined himself made of stone, cold and unfeeling.

“The werewolf is rather vulnerable at the moment,” Voldemort sneered, obviously frustrated at not getting a rise out of him. “Perhaps I could make a gift of  _it_ _?”_

Fear woke in Harry. Worry. But he snuffed them as quickly as they surfaced, taking a deep breath. With effort, he ignored Voldemort and looked around him at the grey stone of the walls and the low-burning, blue-flamed fire in the grate. He could feel Voldemort's annoyance wafting from the other end of the table but didn't acknowledge it.

“I believe I asked you a question.”

Harry finally looked over at him. “I'm leaving,” he said simply.

Relief radiated from Voldemort now, and a reserved thrill of victory. He smiled. “I knew you'd see things my way,” he cooed.

“No. I mean I'm leaving this place,” Harry clarified calmly, causing Voldemort to scowl. “This isn't real. You aren't here.” The scowl deepened. “No, wait.  _I'm_ not here,” Harry said. And even as he spoke the words, the stones began to shift, to slowly dissolve. “Where am I really?” he puzzled.

“Harry, I believe we were having a conversation,” Voldemort said in a low, threatening voice. “ _Listen_ to me.”

“I'm on Remus' sofa,” Harry said as if he hadn't heard. He closed his eyes and focused. He could feel it then, the nap of the worn upholstery. He could smell the musty scent of wood smoke and dust.

“ _Harry Potter!”_  the fiend shouted, his anger a physical thing, rolling over Harry like a wave. But Harry was already drifting back to Remus' study, mindful of the crease in his cheek from the piping on the edge of the cushion he still hugged. Mindful of the broken spring that pressed against his rib. Voldemort was confused, unsettled, frustrated, but Harry took each of those emotions as they came blasting toward him and gently deflected them, like a stone parting water in a stream, so that they did not touch him. And all at once he was awake in Remus' sitting room. Voldemort was stirring still somewhere in the back of his mind, raging, but somehow it did not reach Harry. He concentrated on here, now; was conscious of each breath and the way it filled his lungs, conscious of the air lightly moving through his parted lips on exhale.

And then Voldemort was gone.

Finally, Harry allowed himself to shiver, to fear. But only for a moment. He couldn't quite believe that he'd succeeded. Harry knew better than to look for him, but he thought he could tell Voldemort was no longer creeping in his thoughts.

Then, Harry thought about what he'd told him. At the time, he'd only meant that he was leaving the construct in his mind, but now he considered doing just that: leaving. Not to accept Voldemort's offer, simply to go away. It was so tempting.

But he couldn't, could he? He was still Chosen. He still had a prophecy to fulfil. And despite Snape's assurances, Harry still didn't trust Cobbleshot. He rose from the sofa, almost forgetting to return the cushion. He could keep it, but it wouldn't really fit on his nightstand, he thought wryly. Harry pulled on his cloak and slipped out the door, filled with purpose. He was close to the Alcove, which was close to where they'd found Hagrid. Harry looked down the corridor in that direction and thought he could hear commotion, but he turned his back on it and went to his dormitory instead.

Neville, bless him, was asleep. Harry hoped the boy had other friends that were more inclined to acknowledge his existence. Even after he'd tried to save Harry's skin by warning him Snape was on the warpath, Harry hadn't even thanked him. He'd have to rectify that later, though. Harry was on a mission.

Having the cloak back was comforting, but he'd grown so accustomed to Remus' cardigan. He felt, if he was going into battle, that'd be the first piece of armour he'd choose. He could wear them both, after all. But Remus’ cardigan was not where he'd left it. Harry cursed under his breath. Bloody House Elves were too helpful sometimes. Aggravated, Harry took the next best thing, stuffing the cardigan's previous contents into the pockets of his robe lest the Elves decide they were rubbish and clear them away. Besides, having them with him made him feel less lonely.

The last thing Harry gathered before he left was the Hall Pass, peeling it from the underside of his table. If Cobbleshot decided to try and escape, Harry was following, at least far enough to point the others in the right direction. He took his Map from under his pillow. Cobbleshot was in her rooms still, pacing like a caged animal. And Snape was still in his, but Harry decided not to give a damn. He put the Map back where it belonged before setting out. He didn't want it falling into Cobbleshot's hands. She already had a Hall Pass, and the Map would give her too much advantage.

Harry made his way to her quarters. He didn't intend to confront, just to catch her if she made a break for it. What he found when he got there, though, was Draco Malfoy.

The slimy git was leaned against the wall directly outside her door. Harry drew his wand. It would not surprise him in the least if the little prick was an accomplice. Harry paced the corridor as quietly as possible, never taking his eyes off the ferret. Malfoy was gazing lazily at the floor. His wand was out, but he simply toyed with it idly. Perhaps Harry should hex him now and ask questions later. He wondered where Hermione must be and was a little guilty that he had not checked the Map for her before leaving. He paused, debating. He had the impulse to go back to Gryffindor and look for her. He didn't like thinking she was out while so much was happening.

The Incarcerous spell took him by surprise. Cords slithered beneath his cloak, and before Harry realised what was happening, he found himself on the floor, bound and gagged. The more he fought, the tighter the cords seemed to become, so he finally lay still, seething.

Malfoy sauntered over and plucked the invisibility cloak from Harry's prone form. If looks could kill, the blonde would have been dead several times over. Draco simply smirked. “I just knew you'd be here eventually,” he gloated. “Especially after that impassioned but regretfully ill-received accusation of the vampire bitch. Knew you'd just  _have_ to prove everyone wrong and save the day.” Malfoy nudged him with his toe, looking almost disappointed. “You're so bloody predictable, Potter,” he sneered.

Harry couldn't understand how this had happened. How had Malfoy known he was even there?

“Here, let me get that for you,” he said, bending to pluck Harry's wand from his hand and slip it into his own pocket while Harry unsuccessfully objected. “You know, Potter. I _almost_ respect you,” he said, actually taking a seat on Harry as if he were a piece of furniture. Harry bucked but could not dislodge him. Malfoy ignored his struggles. “Having to listen to that whiny Mudblood for all these years? Gods, she never shuts up, does she? Lucky for me, though,” he shrugged. “She knows  _so many_ things. And all it takes to get her to spill them is some 'I'm-vulnerable-too' puppy dog eyes and a little snog now and then.” Malfoy grimaced. “Of course, I have to disinfect my mouth after, but I expect it's worth it in the end. By the way, Potter, Weasley must have been a lousy kisser. I have no doubt the Dementor was disappointed. But don't worry,” he said with greasy smile. “I've taught Hermione a few things this past week.”

Harry tried to curse at Draco, but because of the gag around his mouth, the result was nothing more than some vehement but muffled grunts. Despite his inability to tell him so, Harry resolved he  _would_ murder this boy.

“Oh, and the things Hermione knows aren't just found in books, you know. For instance, she talks about you,” Malfoy told him conversationally. “ _All_ the  _bloody_ time,” he added, rolling his eyes. “Frets about you mostly. You know, because you were buggering the werewolf? Plus, she knows you wander about alone at all hours in your invisibility cloak. And  _that_ worries her because sometimes you forget how much you've grown, and occasionally it doesn't quite cover the tips of your toes, and she just knows you're going to get caught eventually.” Malfoy sighed happily. “Veritable fount of knowledge is Hermione,” he said, smiling to himself. “Anyway,” he sniffed, rising to his feet and brushing off his slacks, “sit back now and enjoy the show. I've arranged it just for you, after all.”

He dragged Harry over by the wall with no attempts at gentleness, grabbing at his shirt and arm--even at one point his hair--until Harry was no longer underfoot. Then Malfoy draped the cloak back over him, making sure he was properly covered. All Harry could do was watch, livid but helpless, as Malfoy seemed to take a moment to get into character. He jogged in place a bit, working up his pulse and breathing. Then he stepped forward and banged on Cobbleshot's door. And then again, until she finally jerked it open with a scowl.

“What do you want?” she said harshly without even properly registering who her visitor was. “I expect company soon. Go away.” But before she could slam the door in his face, Malfoy lay a hand on it, leaning all his weight against it as if he might collapse otherwise.

“Professor Cobbleshot!  _Thank goodness_. I can't find any of the other professors.” He gulped in air. “It's Harry! He...” Malfoy paused, panting, hanging on the doorframe as if he'd just run a considerable distance. Cobbleshot's eyes widened and she swung the door back open.

 _“What_ _?”_  she demanded. “Harry what?!”

Malfoy made further show of catching his breath. “Harry's  _gone_. To the Forbidden Forest! Something about revenge. Hermione and I don't know what to do!” he whined, eyes panicked. Cobbleshot looked increasingly frantic. The little shit was far too good an actor.

She turned her ba _c_ k on Malfoy, leaving the door wide open behind her. Harry watched as she snatched up the jar of floo powder and dumped at least half into the grate. “Severus! Severus!” she called shrilly. When he didn't immediately answer, Cobbleshot turned back to Draco, snatching his collar in her talon-like fingers. “Go and find the McGonagall woman. Now!” she instructed, tossing him, stumbling, back into the corridor. Malfoy nodded hurriedly and turned to scramble down the hall and out of sight.

“Loraina?” came Snape's echoic inquiry from Cobbleshot's grate. She rushed back over to it.

“I thought you said you'd take care of the boy!” she hissed accusingly.

“What are you talking about?” Snape asked, apprehensive.

“He's gone, Severus! He's in the Forest!” she cried, pacing back and forth, practically babbling. “Severus, they will have him!  _He_ will have him. We must do something. The boy's my only chance.”

Harry wasn't sure what he was her only chance at, but she was clearly upset at the thought of him falling into Voldemort's hands.

“Loraina, my love, slow down,” Snape said now, soothingly.  _“How_ do you know this? Where's the Deputy Headmistress?”

“It doesn't matter, Sev!” she screeched. “There's no  _time_. We have to go after him. Now. Before they get their hands on him!” Even as she said it, she turned to go and do just that.

“Cobs! Loraina!” Snape called frantically, seeing her make up her mind and start to walk away. “Oh, blast it to HELL! For fuck's sake, Loraina, will you stop and listen to me!” But Cobbleshot was already through her door, slamming it behind her and taking off down the corridor much faster than any mere human Harry could imagine. Harry still didn't understand, but his sense of foreboding sat on him figuratively even more oppressively than Malfoy literally had done before.

 _Speak of the Devil_ , Harry thought darkly. Draco came strolling back over to him from the other end of the corridor. He had apparently made a circuit to avoid bumping into Cobbleshot as she left. He glanced over to the woman's door and cast a sealing charm. “Just in case he decides to try to come through the floo,” Malfoy explained casually. “I'm not ready for us to be disturbed yet, Potter.”

He pulled the cloak from Harry’s face and then resumed his sitting on Harry's pelvis, and Harry began imagining all the ways he was going to make Malfoy's death miserable.

“I hope you weren't especially attached to those two,” he said with mock sympathy. “Because you'll never be seeing them again. See, they'll track you to the Forbidden Forest where a friend of mine is waiting for them. He's looking for a 'Shot in the dark, as it were,” he chuckled. “Don't you just love the Quibbler? And as a bonus, I get to wipe my arse with it after I've done with the personal ads.  _I_ thought it was clever, but Father was afraid it would give us away. Though, he doesn't know you quite as well as I do. Knew you'd be too thick to put it together without the Mudblood there to connect the dots. Now, I know what you're thinking. 'How can those two track me to the Forest when I'm right here?'” Malfoy asked, affecting a mocking, high-pitched tone for 'Harry's' part. “Oh, they'll pick up your scent,” Malfoy assured him. “Somewhere out there is that cardigan you've been fucking.”

Harry saw red and glared at the bastard.

“'But Draco, how did  _you_ get my scruffy old cum rag?' I'm so glad you asked, Potter. As it  _happens_ , Hermione took it from your room tonight while you were out practising being a filthy little poof. She thought it would do you good. You're too attached, after all. Decidedly unhealthy. But don't be too mad at her. It was my suggestion. Even offered to dispose of it for her. I'm helpful like that. It's one of the things she likes about me.

“Lucky stroke, though, Dumblebore scarpering off somewhere,” Malfoy mused. “I guess this is just my night. Before he manages to get back, Father will have wrapped up the heretic and the traitor like Christmas gifts, and the Dark Lord will decide all's forgiven again. I just love happy endings, don't you? Couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it myself. Oh, wait,” he said with a theatrical face-palm. “I did. Fancy that.”

 _The traitor._ Harry's blood turned to ice. Snape was in danger. Of course he'd go after Cobbleshot; and alone, because no one else trusted her or cared if she might be in trouble. Harry had almost forgotten about what he'd overheard in Dumbledore's office about her being wanted by Voldemort. Gods,  _Harry was such an idiot_. People with a bounty on their heads usually don't work with the person who put it there.

But then, wasn't that exactly what Lucius was doing?

No. Lucius wasn't working  _with_ Voldemort. He was going to surprise him with a peace offering.

“Now, I know that spell will wear off soon,” Malfoy said, bringing Harry back to the present. “But most likely not before we manage to cage up the monsters. And good luck finding McGonagall, by the way. She's busy taking out the trash at the moment. Might take some doing, too, the carcass being as large as it is.” Harry was so frustrated by Malfoy's insolence and his own impotence he was almost in tears. “But I'm afraid I can't stay and keep you company," Draco sighed, rising to his feet. "I have to go now. No, no. Don't get up. I'll see myself out. Hagrid's lent me his Hall Pass, you see. Only useful thing the half-breed's ever done.” Then Malfoy turned back and delivered a sound kick to Harry's ribs, possibly cracking a couple of them. Harry couldn't even cry out in pain, but at least he wouldn't be giving Malfoy the satisfaction of hearing it.

“Enjoy your night, shithead,” he hissed, finally voicing a glimpse of malice. “And give the Mudblood my love, will you?” Then Malfoy made a little kissy-face at him, tossing the cloak back over Harry’s head before leisurely walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, DustyWolf and Wayfarer_Tree came to my rescue. And Loki knows I needed it. These chapters are getting stickier.
> 
> Chapter Art by: Me! ;)


	38. Alas, How Shall This Bloody Deed Be Answer'd?

The spell did not last nearly as long as Harry might have excepted. His limbs were only partially numb and his mind still in fear-shredded tatters when he felt his bonds loosen and slowly dissolve. It had happened quickly, but not quickly enough for him to catch Malfoy, wherever he had gone. Harry scrambled to his feet, using the wall to assist his deadened legs. He was striped with angry red welts where the magical ropes had bound his body, and his chest ached where Draco had kicked him, a pain made worse by Harry's inability to slow his breathing. He was in a bad way, but he forced himself to move.

Harry quickly took an inventory of his resources. He had the Hall Pass, still. Malfoy had taken his wand, and Harry resolved the boy would ultimately pay for that insult, adding it to Draco’s already considerable debt. But at least he still possessed his cloak. He bent stiffly to retrieve it and put it back on, making sure it covered his goddamned toes. Then he searched his pockets.

He withdrew the phial of headache potion with a smirk, shaking his head. The evening had started out so simply and had held such promise. When he'd left his rooms, he never could have conceived how very far off-course the night's events would veer. Besides the phial, however, all he had were the things from Remus' cardigan. He tossed the charcoal, tissue, and sweets aside. Only one of the items held any promise.

Harry was already in the dungeons. With shaking hands, he held the tiny, hand-drawn map to Snape's quarters up to the light of the nearest torch and mentally oriented himself. He would have to backtrack a bit to come to the place where the map began, but he didn't trust himself in this labyrinth to take short-cuts. On unsteady legs, Harry made his way forward, checking the map often, counting off doorways and side-shoots in his head, moving faster as his circulation improved. After a small, twisting eternity, he finally reached the nondescript depression indicated on the illustration as being the entrance to Snape's private rooms.

Harry had no way of knowing if he'd read the map correctly. This could simply be a stone wall. He did not have his wand, but even if he had he did not know any spells that would force the innocuous surface before him into revealing any possible secrets. He didn't know Snape's password. He had nothing but a rapidly dwindling hope, and he was running out of time.

Harry banged his fist against the wall, unsure how the camouflage might affect Snape's ability to hear his knocking. The man clearly did not often receive visitors. If he heard it, would he even recognise it? Regardless, Harry continued to beat on the stones, some of the wounds on his recently-damaged hand reopening. There continued to be no response.

Harry lay his forehead against the wall, his eyes closed, beating the stones now in frustration with both his hands. He was _so_ close. Damn it all! Harry began cursing. Loudly. He cursed Draco and Lucius, cursed Snape and Cobbleshot and Voldemort, cursed this literally bloody wall. He spouted every foul word he had ever learned, and when he had exhausted the list, he opened his eyes and was startled to discover he rested now against wood instead of stone. Harry stared at the now very visible door and laughed disbelievingly despite the situation. Trust Snape to set indecent language as the password to his quarters. He quickly knocked again, the wood much easier on his hands than the stone had been, but there was no answer. Harry tried the knob.

Amazingly, it turned. Perhaps after disguising the door and burying it so deeply in the dungeons, locking it just seemed redundant. Harry didn’t really question it, he simply rushed inside, his eyes sweeping the familiar, bare sitting room. There was no sign of Snape. Harry’s hands being as damaged as they were, he elected to kick at the door to the Potions Lab instead of knocking, but there was no answer. Harry felt he had known before he'd attempted it that Snape was simply no longer here, and he collapsed in a disappointed heap against the heavily fortified door behind him. All that trouble and unexpected luck, for nothing.

For the first time since his bonds had dissolved, Harry took a moment to breathe and think. He'd already wasted too much time, and he was already exhausted. He had to move smarter, not faster.

After the breach in security, the professors would surely be scouring the Castle and grounds for intruders. There was no telling for certain where any of them might be without his Map. They were also likely dealing with Hagrid, but he somehow doubted they would have taken him to the infirmary. He was too conspicuous and they would probably want to shield his presence and condition from any current patients. Harry really had no idea what they would do with him, except perhaps to take him back to his hut.

Despite his resolution to be calm and rational, Harry was quickly overwhelmed by panic. There were so many unknowns. Any wrong decision could cost him ages in backtracking and chasing down other possibilities. Hogwarts was so large. Harry's desperation began to creep back, invading his thoughts, making them frantic and unfocused. All his mind seemed to want to process was Malfoy's accursed speech and the knowledge that Snape was, at this very moment, walking into a trap.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry tossed a handful of floo powder into the hearth, calling up the Headmaster's office. To his knowledge, the professors only ever accessed it via the guarded stairwell, but perhaps that was simply out of courtesy.

To his mild surprise and immense relief, Harry soon found himself standing in Dumbledore's study. The place was empty, as he had suspected it would be, but he had had no other ideas. He called up the hearths of various professors; not travelling there, simply searching for a response from someone. But they were all quiet. Harry hadn't really hoped for anything more but had thought he should try anyway, if only to be able to say he had done. Harry was just going through motions at this point. Having spent his superficial options, Harry jogged limpingly over to the Headmaster's desk, snatched a quill from its stand, and left a note telling Dumbledore or McGonagall, in shaky, near illegible writing, what had happened and where he was going.

Because there was no question of him _not_ going. He’d known it the moment Malfoy had said Snape was in danger. No doubt, there _should_ have been questions, but if they had occurred to him, Harry had never entertained them.

Without hesitation, he flooed again to Remus’ quarters, not even sparing a glance to the sofa as he swept past it and out the door into the corridor, turning sharply in the direction of the Alcove which he passed without a thought. His only concern at the moment was Severus Snape and the grisly imaginings of what Voldemort would do to him once he realised the extent of the man’s betrayal. His death would not be quick, Harry was certain. Or perhaps Voldemort would decide death would be too good for the Potions Master. Harry shuddered. Snape had done too much for him to be left to such a fate without a fight. And Harry was about to bring it...somehow.

The area before the archway where Hagrid had been found was now deserted. Harry walked with determination, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs and the sharp, stabbing pain of his damaged ribs. He pulled the Hall Pass from his pocket and slipped it over his head as he moved so that he didn’t even slow as he passed through the wards.

Of course, he really had no idea what he was doing, but when had that ever stopped him before?

The Forest was closest to the Castle here. Harry assumed this must be why Cobbleshot had used this particular passage and why Hagrid had been deposited here. Without pausing to think, Harry plunged into the trees, opting for speed over stealth. Everyone had a head start on him and he could already be too late. He realised, however, after moving some ways in, that he did not know whether his quarry lay straight ahead or if Snape’s path had veered at some point. And so he reluctantly slowed to a stop, listening. Though the clouds had dispersed and the full moon shone brightly overhead, without his wand, Harry was blind to any tracks the party might have left behind.

Harry crept forward, grateful for the stiff breeze in his face which rustled the leaf litter and effectively masked the sound of his footsteps. Over the whisper of the wind, however, or perhaps carried on it, he thought he could hear voices coming from a familiar clearing up ahead. Cautiously, Harry made his way forward and peered through the trees.

What he saw there caused his heart to sink.

Remus’ cardigan dangled, ripped and dirty, from the low-hanging branch of a tree. Tied to the trunk of said tree was Cobbleshot, hanging limply in her bonds and wearing a string of garlic. Despite appearing obviously ill, her expression was fierce and her glare was fixed on Draco as he held Snape at wandpoint. The younger Malfoy wore a garlic necklace of his own and held another in his hand, thrusting it at the Potions Master.

“Go on, _Professor_ ,” Draco addressed him sneeringly. “Put it on.”

Snape was undeniably reluctant, looking as though it took an immense force of will to extend his hand and accept the garland, and an even stronger will to place it over his head. “Draco,” he said, weakly, “you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to take the same path your father took. There’s still hope for you.”

Harry couldn’t understand why Snape was playing along, or why he was bothering to try and reason with the little shit. Besides being the head of Draco’s house and feeling some lingering responsibility for him, surely Snape felt no compunctions hexing a student, especially considering what the bastard had done. And then Harry noticed something that made him feel almost physically ill. Snape held no wand.

Had Draco really managed to subdue them _both?_ It seemed unthinkable, but there they were, at his mercy. Harry saw no sign of Lucius.

“Shut your filthy, traitorous mouth!” Draco spat at Snape. “My father’s ‘path’ was just fine until the prison break. I’ll bet you were the reason the Ministry showed up in the first place. _You’re_ the reason Father fell out with the Dark Lord.”

“Your father ‘fell out’ with the Dark Lord because once he managed to obtain a wand after the Dementors let him out of his cell, instead of helping the others against the Aurors, he _ran away_. His cowardice is not my doing,” Snape hissed, managing to sound caustic despite the fact that he looked as if he were ready to collapse. If Harry had had his wand, Draco would be little more than a smoking crater right now and they could all call it a night. But Harry didn’t have a wand. Still, he had to do _something_. Harry examined the clearing, trying to work out his options.

He supposed, if he were careful, he might manage to creep along the treeline and undo Cobbleshot’s bonds. And then...they would just have to figure things out from there. She didn’t appear to have much strength. Harry supposed it was the garlic. She must have been wearing it for a while. But there was plenty of fight left in her eyes, which gave him hope. With a definite goal now in mind, he made his way carefully toward the nearest tree.

“My father is not a coward,” Draco spat, his jaw clenched and his knuckles white around his wand. “ _You’re_ the coward. You’re afraid of the greatness the Dark Lord envisions, playing both sides until you’re sure which one will come out ahead. Well, let me save you some suspense,” he hissed. “Once Potter is out of the way, which should be in fairly short order, the Dark Lord will rise victorious, and Father and I will be at his Right Hand.”

By this time, Harry had made it halfway to his target unnoticed, though it was difficult to ignore Draco’s spouted delusions of grandeur and concentrate on his task. The wind was being especially helpful with the noise, but less so with his cloak. He was almost afraid the sudden gusts would snatch it from him despite how tightly he held it, especially when the breeze suddenly changed direction as it did now.

Harry had just reached the shelter of the next tree when Cobbleshot’s head snapped up and she cried out as if being tortured, though Draco’s wand was still prone on Snape.

“ _NO!_ ” she wailed despairingly. Her eyes sought out Snape’s and they shared a look of misery and defeat. The Potions Master's eyes drifted shut and he seemed to wilt. Harry froze, not understanding what had just passed between them. Draco, however, seemed to understand it perfectly.

“Ah,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Now we can _finally_ get on with things. Father?”

Harry was peering out from behind his tree, looking for signs of Lucius, when he felt a strong arm seize him from behind. He struggled, but the limb was like iron, and Harry’s ribs were still tender enough to limit his success in throwing it off. His cloak was ripped from him and Harry fought even harder. It wasn’t until he felt the cold point of a wand dig into the tender flesh under his jaw that he finally stilled.  

“ _Well done_ , Draco,” Lucius drawled, clearly impressed as he marched Harry into the clearing. Harry cut his eyes to his captor as best he could without turning his head and impaling himself further on Lucius’ wand. The once impeccably groomed man looked like hell. His beard was at least several days old and his long, white blond hair was tangled and dirty. He’d clearly been sleeping rough for a while.

“Told you he’d show if we waited long enough,” Draco said, clearly chuffed with himself. “Why go to the trouble of dragging him out, kicking and screaming, when he’ll just come running to us?”

“The Dark Lord will be _most_ pleased,” Lucius intoned in Harry’s ear, his incongruently silky voice sending unpleasant shivers down Harry’s spine. “You’ve done exceedingly well, my son. I never doubted you had it in you.”

As Draco preened, Harry cast a panicked, apologetic look in Snape’s direction, though what he saw there was not heartening. The man did not even appear angry, just unutterably sad. “Harry,” he murmured quietly. “What have you done?”

Harry thought he might have become inured to Snape’s disappointment in him, but apparently, he was wrong. He felt it like a knife to the gut and swallowed back his shame, finding it suddenly difficult to meet the man’s eye but not wanting to look away.  

“What he’s done is delivered the Malfoy family back into the good graces of our benevolent Lord,” Lucius sneered at Snape. Then he smiled down at Harry, seeming almost sincere when he added, “And we are most grateful to you for that, Mister Potter. How very selfless of you.”

Cobbleshot began to struggle against her bonds, snarling like a wild animal; something that seemed to amuse the Malfoys to no end. Everyone present knew it was fruitless, and she soon sagged again in surrender. “You were my one chance at finally killing the fiend, Harry,” Cobbleshot lamented. “But you aren’t ready, and now all is lost.”

“Quite right,” Lucius began, but she cut him off, still addressing Harry.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t still spit in his face,” Cobbleshot croaked, giving Harry a wiley, crooked smile. “Do you remember the secret I shared with you, Little One?”

Harry looked over at her, confused. Secret? The two had rarely conversed, much less had any heart-to-hearts.

“Surprised you can still talk,” Draco said, bemused by the helpless woman’s audacity. “Shut it, though, will you?”

She dismissed Draco with a sneer, keeping her wild eyes focused on Harry. “Our _secret_ , Harry. I think it’s time we shared it.”

“Loraina,” Snape warned. “This is not wise. You’re too weak.”

“I suggest _you all_ silence yourselves, before something unfortunate happens to our dear Mister Potter here,” Lucius said tersely, digging his wand deeper into Harry’s neck and causing him to wince. “And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“Ha!” Cobbleshot smirked. “You aren't going to kill any of us, Lucius. Least of all _him_. The Dark Lord would have your skin. Probably literally.”

“You know, Rainey. I don't believe I mentioned killing,” Lucius said, distaste thick in his voice. He tightened his grip on Harry, aggravating Harry’s injured ribs and causing his knees to buckle, but he withdrew his wand from Harry’s throat to turn it on Cobbleshot. She chuckled darkly.

“You think I'm unfamiliar with torture? Pain and I are old friends. Unlike the two of us, _Lucy,_ ” she sneered. “You don't frighten me.” She looked to Harry again. “Our secret, Little Harry, why don't you tell it to Draco?” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Harry gasped. _Of course_. Animus _Secret_ um. She smiled, seeing the light of comprehension in his eyes. Snape followed their silent exchange and narrowed his eyes at him. “Harry,” Snape said firmly. _“Don’t.”_

“Don’t do what?” said Draco, growing uneasy after the mention of his name. He shifted his wand from Snape to Cobbleshot and back again.

“It isn't as if it matters at this point, my love,” Cobbleshot shrugged casually to Snape. “We might as well enjoy ourselves while we can.”

“ _Loraina-_ ”

“And it might make _you_ feel better, Harry, to unburden your soul.” She cackled, sounding a bit mad, Harry thought. Well. Madder than usual. “We can tell him together!” she gasped as if the idea had just occurred to her and appealed to her greatly. Harry steeled himself and nodded, already reaching inside himself for the spell. It was darker and sharper than ever.

“ _No_ , Harry, wait!” Snape cried, distracting him and causing him to lose contact with the force he was reaching for so that Cobbleshot cast before Harry was able. The spell sliced through her bonds and struck Draco, but she was so weak, the spell did little more than scratch him deeply, shredding his shirt. Still, he cried out in shock, throwing both his hands over his bleeding ribs, dropping his wand in the process and, as a result, his cover on Snape.

Now free, Cobbleshot ignored the boy and sprinted on unsteady legs for Lucius who was already drawing back to cast a spell of his own, almost forgetting Harry entirely. Snape fixed his eyes on Harry and reached for him, coming fast on Cobbleshot’s heels.

Lucius knocked Cobbleshot flat of her back with a spell. It wasn’t an Avada Kedavra, but she still lay lifeless where she landed. Harry had his own spell on the tip of his tongue, but Snape was blocking his line of sight to Draco...until Lucius downed him, too. Harry saw Snape fall but couldn’t allow that pain to register and distract him again. He fixed his intent on the rat-faced little shit who had orchestrated their current miseries.

“ _Animus Secretum!_ ” he shouted, pouring all his hate and frustration into the cast. The orb did not linger at his scar this time but instead materialised fully formed and instantly shrieked toward Draco’s chest where it landed with a sickening thud. Harry’s malice and determination to cause harm evaporated once he saw the blood spray from Draco’s mouth as he folded and crumpled to the ground.

Lucius raged at Harry's side, crying out in anguish and disbelief, no doubt seconds from inflicting Harry with serious harm. But the boy would be blessedly spared from experiencing it. His vision was already growing dark, the toll of the spell robbing him of consciousness. As he fell to the leaf-strewn forest floor, his last cognizant vision was of Snape laying a few feet from him, still and pale as death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The girls came through in a big way this time. The working title for this chapter until last night was 'The Bastard Chapter From the Ninth Circle of Hell'. So yeah. Wayfarer_Tree, DustyWolf...you rock my rainbow-striped, knee-high toe-socks.


	39. To His Confine: And of the Truth Herein

The first thing he was aware of when he regained consciousness, before even opening his eyes, was the sound of Snape's voice.

“You're an idiot.”

It wasn't angry or derisive. In fact, Snape’s voice was devoid of any inflexion at all. He might have been merely giving the time of day.

 _Do you happen to have the time?_  
_Oh. Yes: you're an idiot._

The next thing Harry was aware of was the pain. He hurt absolutely everywhere. It hurt even to groan. He wasn’t sure what Lucius had done to him while he was unconscious, but even though he hadn’t been awake for it, he still felt its results. Harry suspected Cruciatus. He tried to sit up and stars burst behind his eyelids.

Make that prolonged Cruciatus.

Still, once he remembered how to breathe, he took a mental catalogue and seemed to still be in one piece with nothing broken other than the cracked ribs he’d started with, and he supposed that was something. Perhaps Lucius had thought that Voldemort would disapprove if he damaged Harry _too_ badly.

“What happened?” Harry croaked. His voice was damaged as the rest of him. Perhaps he _had_ been awake for a time and simply did not remember it. Thank Merlin for small favours. He tried to open his eyes only to realise they were open already and he was simply unable to see. Had he gone blind? _Had Lucius blinded him?_

“I always knew you'd be the death of me,” Snape said instead of answering.

 _Death_.

Harry’s preoccupation with his pain paled for a moment. He was afraid to ask, but he did so anyway. “Draco,” he said hesitantly. “Is he…?”

“Alive. But barely,” Snape reported. Harry heaved a careful sigh of relief. Barely was good enough for him, and it was all the prick deserved.

“Why can’t I see anything?” Harry asked weakly.

“Because it’s dark, Harry,” Snape said snidely. “As it tends to be in dungeons, particularly when your captors are pissed off at you.”

Not blind then. Good. That was good. “It didn’t work then?” Harry asked wryly though through a wince. As frantic as his flight to the forest had been, there didn’t seem much point in panicking now, so he didn’t. Or else was trying not to. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that the pain he felt now was probably going to be nothing compared to what he would be facing when-

No... _if_ he met Voldemort.

Snape laughed at him. Actually, genuinely laughed. Even though he’d been joking, Harry’d never expected an appropriate response. Well. It wasn’t _quite_ appropriate. The joke hadn’t been that funny. Harry had never heard the sound of Snape laughing before, and in this context, it rankled. Apparently, the answer to his question was 'no', which Harry really thought would have sufficed.

“The only thing you achieved, Harry,” Snape informed him once his chuckle subsided, his tone still heavily laced with dark humour, “was almost killing Malfoy’s only heir and thus assuring us even more misery before the real torture begins, once he hands us over to the Dark Lord. So if that is your idea of success then, yes, Harry. It worked beautifully.”

Harry's pain was slowly starting to subside and he struggled upright, groaning all the while. He groped blindly around him until he found a cold stone wall opposite Snape’s voice against which to prop himself. The hardness of the stone aggravated his aching muscles, but the coolness was almost therapeutic. Though, he had no doubt that that small novelty would wear off soon enough. He heard water trickling somewhere deeper in the cell, and also what could only be the scurrying of a rat. A very large one. So perhaps, if they could avoid being eaten alive, they might not die of thirst.

“If you only knew the effort that was put into your protection,” Snape told him, apparently feeling talkative. And why not? There wasn’t much else to do there, especially in the dark. “The layers upon _layers_ of it. The undertaking really was a marvel. And yet, miraculously, you seem to have--in only fifteen years--completely shredded through several feats of some of the most powerful magic with which I have been personally associated.” Snape sighed. “You have a special _talent_ for self-destruction, Mister Potter,” he said, sounding almost sincerely impressed. “All that effort, and you’ve personally delivered yourself to the Dark Lord.” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “You should have worn a bow.”

Harry wasn’t immune to Snape’s point. In hindsight, he realised how very many things he should have done differently. But he couldn’t help feeling Snape was being slightly unfair, especially considering Harry's present state. “I was trying to save you,” he objected lamely, attempting to adjust to a less painful position and realising there wasn’t one. Snape continued to ignore his struggles, offering no attempt to comfort him whatsoever.

“ _Me?_ And what, exactly _,_ made you think _I_ was worth saving?” Snape said, his benign humour eroding slightly. “You’re meant to save the whole _bloody_ world, and yet you threw civilisation to the goddamned wolves because your Potions professor might have been in danger? _And_ you managed to cock that up, as well. As I said before, you’re an idiot,” he finished plainly.

“I left the Headmaster a note,” Harry sulked. “I thought someone might show up before...you know...they moved us. Or something.” It was still difficult for Harry to think clearly.

“A note?” Snape said sarcastically. “How very reassuring.”

“It couldn’t have taken them that long to find it. I left it in his office.”

“ _In_ his office?” Snape said as if he didn’t quite believe him.

“It’s a long story,” Harry murmured, massaging his limbs to try and work out some of the soreness. He didn’t particularly want to explain that he’d had to break into Snape’s chambers to manage it.

The Potions Master was quiet for a long while before responding. “ _If_ you left sufficient information, it is possible that Albus was able to stop Lucius before he could contact the Dark Lord,” he reasoned. “Loraina and I might have been left to fend our ourselves but, once they discovered your departure, I have little doubt the cavalry was sent.”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?” Harry said hopefully. Why did Snape still sound so bleak?

“Not _nearly_ good enough,” Snape snipped at him. Then he sighed wearily, as if being frustrated with Harry now was simply a waste of his energy. “Even if that _is_ the case, you have simply delayed your demise, not prevented it.” Harry heard some tension in Snape’s voice. “I know these dungeons, Harry. They are vast. No doubt, Lucius has added additional wards, as well. Even if they know we are here, it may take them longer to find us than you have left.”

Harry was confused. Granted, he felt like he'd been beaten thoroughly with a stocking full of Gobstones, but as far as he could tell, he wasn’t bleeding internally or anything. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you happen to actually _read_ any of those books the werewolf gave you?” Snape asked snidely.

Harry felt himself blush to his ears and was glad for the pitch darkness. “After…” he started rather pitifully but found he could not finish. “I couldn't quite bring myself,” he admitted quietly, embarrassed. Snape snorted.

“Pity. You might have learned a valuable tidbit about the nature of a vampire's cravings, particularly where they concern virgin blood. Why do you think you were given them?” he added irritably.

“What does that matter?” Harry argued. “Cobbleshot isn’t even in here with us. Is she?” It only now occurred to him that she could be and might still be unconscious. Or just exceptionally quiet. It was a thought which made him uncomfortable, and he searched the depths of the cell as if he might see something there. Hell, he couldn’t even see his own hand waved in front of his face.

“Harry, you seem to notice so much and yet nothing that you ought. How can you be so _blind?_ Is it willful? Or are you really just that dense?” Snape asked. It was obviously facetious, though his tone sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know. Harry, however, had no answer. He disliked not being able to see Snape’s expression, especially since the man sounded so unlike himself at the moment. Harry’s eyes were slowly becoming more accustomed to the lack of illumination, but he knew he’d never be able to see clearly here. At the moment, Snape was little more than a slightly less black patch of darkness.

“Why do you think I turned on the Dark Lord, Harry?” Snape asked him.

Harry had never given it any thought. Actually, he had only recently accepted the fact that Snape had tuned at all and wasn't still Voldemort's faithful servant. Snape seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Harry simply had none to offer. He wasn’t about to guess. He didn’t want to sound any denser than Snape already seemed to consider him.

“Let me enlighten you, then,” Snape finally said, sounding somewhat disappointed. “Not long before you were born, when the Dark Lord was at the height of his power, he attempted to draw the Romanians to his cause.”

“Yeah. Remus mentioned that,” Harry said, glad he had picked up on something at least.

“And did he, perhaps, mention who the Dark Lord sent to negotiate?” 

Harry had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach as the point of this history lesson began to dawn on him. “Still no ideas?” Snape asked. “It so happened that he sent two expendables, new recruits who had just received their Marks and were eager to prove themselves,” he sighed, sounding bleaker than ever. “The Romanians would have been a nice addition to his arsenal but not an essential one. Looking back, Loraina and I decided he never _really_ expected them to accept the terms we carried in his name. But we weren't aware of it at the time," Snape muttered bitterly. "We felt important, as if the Dark Lord were showing us favour by sending us on such an important mission. We thought--the Dark Lord being who he was--no one would dare deny him.” He sighed, “But the world is much, much larger than our little island, Harry, and the further one travels from it, the less weight the name of one aspiring tyrant carries.” Snape sounded world-weary, defeated. “The Coven, as it turned out, was not at all inclined to accept the Dark Lord’s offer. Why should they? They had an empire of their own. Though, they did send him a gift in return for his consideration. They decided, if he wanted vampires, they would make him two brand new ones who were already sworn to him,” he finished in an acrimonious whisper.

Harry now felt at least as dense as Snape considered him to be. It had been right in front of him all along. Snape’s nocturnal tendencies. The profusion of locks on the Potions Lab door. The Substisanguinus construction set up so near to where Snape rested. His rage at Harry's destroying a phial of it, which had seemed disproportionate at the time but now made perfect sense. It wasn't as if Harry had never seen Snape in the sunlight. He attended Quidditch matches, after all. But given the option, he’d always arrived for Harry's Occlumency lessons at Grimmauld Place before dawn or after sunset. And Harry wasn't sure he had ever seen the man eat, despite his presence at the Staff Table.

A part of him didn't want to accept it. He knew, rationally, that it was true, but Harry couldn't quite internalise the fact that Snape was a vampire. He'd thought it before, certainly, but only in jest. Harry swallowed uncomfortably. “So, when you mentioned that bit about virgin blood...?”

“Yes, Harry,” Snape said wearily. “That bit about virgin blood. And the fact that it calls to a vampire. Easily ignored when one is sated on other sustenance, but a siren song when one is starving.”

“So, how long can you go, then? Without blood or potion?” Harry asked nervously. Snape’s lack of response was less than reassuring.

Harry felt panic threaten. He was locked in a dark, stone box with a man who would like to eat him. As situations went, he’d been in better ones. But having an anxiety attack wouldn’t help matters in the least. In fact, Harry suspected anything that got his blood pumping might make matters worse. He decided it best to just keep talking, if not to stave off his own desperation then perhaps to distract Snape from his ‘cravings’.

“You Patronus,” Harry said, remembering some detail from the painful blur of the Dementor attack. “What is it?”

“What do you think it is?” Snape sighed.

“And the spider?”

“Obviously Loraina's.” Snape now sounded almost bored. “She always was a bit different.”

“Was it something else before? Your Patronus?” Harry wasn't sure why, of all the questions he could ask, he chose this one, but he was curious. Snape couldn't seem to understand it, either, by the tone of his voice.

“It was mockingbird,” he admitted, almost uncomfortably.

“Huh,” was all Harry said in response.

“Well, you're certainly taking this all in stride,” Snape observed.

“I don't think it's really sunk in yet.”

“I have no doubt that is true,” Snape replied as if he considered Harry incapable of absorbing most things.

Harry suddenly hated the darkness. The blob that was Snape was lighter now but still distorted, and he'd never wanted to see Snape more than he did at that moment. He wanted to really look and try to determine if the truth had always been written there and Harry had simply chosen not to see it. He wanted to know if Snape really was as blasé about the revelation as he sounded, or if his expression was tormented. He wanted to know if, in the dark, Snape stopped pretending not to care.

“Why are you scowling at me like that?” Snape asked irritably.

“You can see me?” Harry said, surprised, then immediately felt like an idiot. “Oh. Right. You would,” he mumbled, blushing. “So, how well _can_ you see me?”

“I can see those cracks in your glasses, if that answers your question,” Snape muttered, sounding bored again.

It actually answered more than one of Harry’s questions. He considered taking them off but decided against it. He suspected he’d somehow feel naked. And even cracked, they might serve him well enough if anyone ever turned back on the lights. “Can I ask you something?”

“You might as well. You're going to anyway, and I don't see much sense in trying to hide anything any longer. Besides, we seem to have quite a lot of time on our hands. At the moment.”

Harry didn't like the ominous tone in Snape's voice. Well, he didn't like his ominous statement. Snape's voice was actually...quite nice. Especially when divorced from the sight of it coming from his sneering expression.

“So, you turned on Voldemort because he sent you on a kind of suicide mission.”

Snape sighed. “I'm not dead, Harry, if you haven't noticed. Did Lupin explain nothing?”

“You know that's not what I meant. You turned on him because it's his fault you...became what you are. And he didn't care.”

“Indeed, he didn't. He also didn't find having fledgeling vampires all that helpful, apparently. Certainly couldn't make more of them. Too difficult to feed,” Snape added sourly.

Harry tried to imagine being Snape. He’d started something like this exercise that sunny afternoon by the Lake, but now it was more personal by far. He pictured Snape, in the prime of his life, made into this monster...or what the man seemed to consider to be a monster. Harry could imagine how _he_ would feel if he suddenly could no longer play Quidditch on a sunny afternoon, or enjoy Mrs. Weasley’s Christmas ham.

Harry wondered how long a vampire needed to take Substisanguinus before they could tolerate food and light. And how difficult it was to make. And if that was the only reason Snape had accepted a teaching position at Hogwarts, surrounded by virgins but with the resources to make the one thing that could allow him to resist their temptation.

Then Harry imagined a rare potion being the only thing between him and the potential murder of friends and family, and he shuddered. He imagined how hard it would be to be around other people, to always be afraid of discovery, to be bitter and angry and never able to explain why. So much of who Snape was and why he had always been...the way he was...suddenly made sense to Harry. And on top of it all, Snape had to deal with the stress of being a double agent. And of trying to protect a naive little boy who had always treated him with nothing but contempt.

Harry could certainly understand why Snape had turned on Voldemort, and also why he still strove against him when he could just as easily sabotage the Order--the only real resistance to Voldemort’s power--and take a place of honour at Voldemort’s side.

“You felt betrayed,” Harry said quietly.

“What part of that was not clear?” Snape huffed. Harry could see well enough at this point to tell Snape had laid his head back against the wall behind him, arms resting on his knees.

“Both of you did. That’s why Cobbleshot wanted me to kill Voldemort so badly.”

Snape lifted his head from the wall and bowed it. “Loraina took it slightly harder than I did,” Snape said softly, sounding troubled by the memory.

“What happened?” Harry asked, just as quietly. “Why does Voldemort want her dead?”

“Because she tried to kill him,” Snape said, almost in the same tone in which he’d told Harry he was an idiot. It was an act that Harry felt might have merited more emotion. “She came surprisingly close, actually. New vampires can be unpredictable, and Loraina was unpredictable to begin with,” he said, a small smile in his voice.

“Everyone else calls her Rainey,” Harry observed. “Or Cobs. But you always call her Loraina.” The grey blob that was Snape straightened out his legs in front of him and leaned forward as though he were about to tell Harry something secret or candid.

“She was always Loraina to me,” he said after a moment of reflection, in a tone so mild Harry almost could not believe it was really Snape who was speaking. He sounded nostalgic, and Harry found himself somehow glad to know there were things in this man’s past that he didn’t mind remembering. “It wasn't until we joined the Death Eaters that she was ever anything else, really. The others nicknamed her. She was tough. Capricious. As treacherous as wet cobblestones. I know you grew up with Muggles and all that hideous, flat asphalt,” he said as if he disapproved of the invention. “But most Wizards understand how dangerous cobblestones can be in the rain. And that was Loraina.” The smile in Snape’s voice was more pronounced, though Harry could not picture one on the man’s face. He’d never seen him smile. “She seemed so harmless at first glance, just this small, quaint thing. But you could turn your ankle on her as easily as on rainy cobs,” he said with a tiny, fond chuckle.

Harry wasn’t sure why this story bothered him so much. Part of it, no doubt, was that this seemed like a wholly different man than the one who had terrorised his childhood since Harry came to Hogwarts, and the contrast was surreal. But there was more to it, and Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“She was so beautiful once, Harry,” Snape said, almost dreamily. And Harry, despite himself, was as enthralled as he was annoyed. “Before she went into hiding, went into the wild, her eyes didn’t sparkle with madness, they simply sparkled.” He shrugged, “I never could quite understand why she chose to bestow such a look on me, of all people, but I tended not to question it. I simply basked in it. Her eyes, Harry, were the colour of the sea,” he said softly, as if he were envisioning them now, “and her beauty, it was very like the sea’s, as well: lovely in the shallows, dangerous in the deeps. She could pull you in and then flush you out like the tide. Yes,” he said with a sigh. Harry imagined his eyes falling closed at the memory. “She was _very_ like the sea,” he breathed. “Certainly nothing so ordinary as cobblestones. And so I have always called her Loraina.”

“So,” Harry said, some of his sulkiness reappearing for some reason. “You're in love with Cobbleshot.” Harry found himself strangely...disappointed.

Snape shook his head, not just to correct Harry it seemed, but also as if he were dislodging the past. “It isn't like that, Harry. We loved each other once, a long time ago, and for that, I will be forever grateful to her. But more than that, it's simply that we have a history. We share a mutual misery. After it befell us, we chose different paths. We became different people. But it will always connect us.”

This made Harry feel slightly better, sad as it was; which puzzled him, but he didn’t dwell on it. Because he’d had another thought, one that voiced itself before he could stop it. “It was for her, wasn't it? You turned on him because of what it did to her,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Snape did not respond. He simply leaned back against the wall again, apparently weary of the subject and the memories it evoked.

It was touching. Far more touching than anything Harry would ever have previously imagined from of the man. Harry began to realise he really didn’t know Snape at all. As complex as Harry already knew him to be, Snape contained volumes within him yet unread. Harry found he wanted to know him better. Not just better but completely, if such a thing was even possible. He’d made the resolution before, but it was different now. This wasn’t just curiosity. This was...something Harry didn’t want to consider too closely at the moment. Perhaps after they escaped he’d revisit it, but right now it was too confusing, it touched him too deeply.

Harry felt they could do with a change of subject. “Where did Dumbledore go?” he asked, picking his distraction at random. “Why did he leave Hogwarts?”

Snape straightened, and when he answered Harry this time, he sounded more like himself. “When you told me Draco had been pursuing Granger, I suspected some mischief and went to the Headmaster,” he explained. “Neither of us imagined the extent of it,” he added ruefully. “Upon reviewing my memory of finding you by the train the night of the Dementor attack, we caught sight of Lucius creeping away from one of the carriages. Albus left to look for clues to his whereabouts, but it turned out the villain was camped at our doorstep.”

Harry only absorbed about half of what Snape had just said. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice after a short silence.

“For which part?” Snape grunted, resuming his lean against the wall.

“All of it.”

“You were simply being a Gryffindor,” Snape sighed, as if absolving him. Or as if Harry’s stupidity could not be held against him, considering. “I really should know by now to expect no more from you than blundering, fool-hearty heroism.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Harry said. “I mean. I apologise for that, too,” he rushed to explain. “But I meant the other stuff. I’m sorry about what happened to you. And to Cobbleshot. To the two of you.” He blushed. He wasn’t sure that he was making much sense, or if he was conveying that he understood the tragedy, not only of their infection, but of what the aftermath had done to them as a couple. As people. Snape was silent for a long time. Harry thought he might have been regarding him.

“Thank you,” he finally said, almost too softly for Harry to catch. “And, for what it’s worth,” he went on, seeming to struggle with what he was about to say, “I’m sorry, as well, Harry. Loraina and I, at least, made poor choices for which we ultimately paid. You, however, were simply born. You have never deserved the burden that has fallen to you, no matter how I strove to find fault enough in you to justify it.”

They sat quietly for a long while after that in companionable misery.

 


	40. Had He the Motive and the Cue for Passion

It was impossible to tell how long it had been since their cell had last seen an occupant, but it seemed clean enough to Harry; gritty, but not smelling of anything more ominous or disgusting. Water leaked down the stones from the floors above and pooled in a depression in the floor by the corner, and he was able to get enough in him to slake the worst of his thirst. It didn’t taste of anything but staleness and dust. His hunger was another matter. As was Snape’s. The man had managed to catch a couple of the enormous rats that prowled their cell but, after that, word seemed to have gotten around in the rodent community to steer clear of their small room.

It had been surreal hearing Snape feeding on the pests. Not as disgusting as Harry might have imagined but definitely uncomfortable, especially since Harry couldn’t help wondering how long it would take before Snape decided Harry was next. It had embarrassed them both, but there was little to be done. It had seemed too intimate a thing for Harry to be present for; more personal by far than Harry pissing in the corner but in the same vein. Harry could feel the man becoming more and more restless, and neither of them seemed to dare attempt sleeping.

As time dragged on and they still had no visitors, neither rescuers nor captors, Harry began to prepare himself for the inevitable. Snape _would_ feed on him. And as he became more and more inured to the horror of it, Harry began simply wondering what it would feel like. Would it hurt? Would he enjoy it? Would he die in pain and terror, or drift off in ecstasy? Harry eventually found himself pondering when, exactly, his dread had turned to anticipation. When had he started idly fantasising about Snape sweeping him up and puncturing his veins?

These were irreverent thoughts. But who cared, really? There was no longer any such thing between them as propriety or boundaries, at least as far as Harry was concerned. In fact, Harry thought he felt drunk, but having never been, he had no basis for comparison. He determined to get well and properly sloshed if they ever made it out of this cell alive. In the meantime, all he knew was his head swam and he felt giddy and sick and slow. And Snape’s restlessness was distracting in ways both good and bad.

“How long have we been here, Severus?” Harry asked, leaning limply against his wall. “I can't tell, but I suspect you know.” His energy was dwindling, and his hope had been spent hours after he’d woken up. He wouldn’t call it despair, but the word apathy fit nicely.

“Don’t call me by my given name,” Snape replied testily, pacing slowly up and down the cell. It made Harry tired just watching his blurry, grey form, but at least it was something to focus on.

“And can you give me a reason why I shouldn’t?” Harry asked impudently. He was too weary to be fazed by the man’s tetchiness.

“Harry, are you trying to shorten your suffering by inducing me to kill you out of irritation? Because if so, you are doing _exceedingly_ well.”

Harry grinned to himself. Snape sounded more and more like his old self with each passing hour. Baiting him wasn’t wise, but it was certainly entertaining. “Do you know?” he asked stubbornly. “How long?” Of course, he was really asking a very different question and they both knew it. Not ‘How long have we been here?’ but ‘How long do I have left?’

“Three days, at least,” Snape finally murmured. “You were unconscious for quite a while.”

“So, I’m looking like a roasted chicken leg with glasses right about now, I suppose,” Harry mumbled with a chuckle. Snape stopped pacing and Harry thought he might be staring at him. Obviously, Snape didn’t watch many cartoons as a child. “You know, Looney Tunes? Two blokes get stuck on a deserted island, and then they get so hungry they begin imagining each other as roasted chickens or hams or something?” Harry giggled then, imagining Snape as a giant sausage link in a lanky black wig.

“Well, that certainly didn’t take long,” Snape muttered under his breath, pacing again.

“What didn’t?” Harry asked indifferently, laying his head back against the wall.

“You. Going completely mad. I thought you’d last at least another day or so.”

“I’m not mad,” Harry assured him. “Just hungry and bored.”

“Will you please stop talking about food?” Snape snapped.

“Fine,” Harry said brightly. “What would you rather talk about?”

“I wouldn’t,” Snape said firmly.

Harry gave a lazy, lopsided smile. “You’re annoyed.”

“Your powers of perception never cease to amaze,” Snape answered snidely.

“It’s because I’m a virgin.”

“Do you have anything _else_ obvious to add?!” he snarled. The man really was becoming exceptionally agitated.

“Well, I see _one_ possible solution,” Harry said musingly. Snape suddenly stopped pacing again. Harry couldn’t see Snape’s expression, just that his face was turned to him. Harry waggled his eyebrows for clarification.

“No,” Snape said finally, as if he’d actually considered it. Harry leaned forward, intrigued. “It would buy us a day, maybe. Two at most,” he added, as though to himself.

“Those sound like better odds than I’ve got now,” Harry pointed out. “Seems to me, before the day is out, you’ll have to either fuck me or eat me,” Harry said casually, as if they weren’t discussing intercourse and/or murder.

Snape huffed and abruptly took his seat opposite of Harry, laying his head in his hands. Harry felt sorry for him. Snape was still fighting tooth and nail long after Harry himself had made peace with his fate. Harry’d been here before, though. Death had loomed more immediate while he was in the Dementor’s grasp, but it really was no harder to accept now, even though it was being dangled further from him. But let it dangle. Harry would entertain himself in the meantime.

“Well. I know which I’d prefer,” he offered.

“ _I'd_ prefer to do neither,” Snape grumbled. “Has it ever occurred to you I might not be particularly interested?” he asked waspishly. “Or are you so certain of your appeal you think it will override my natural inclinations?”

Of course it had occurred to Harry. In fact, since hearing the saga of Severus and Loraina, it had lurked in the corners of Harry’s thoughts almost constantly. And it was less than welcome there. Harry bit back his annoyance, ignored the nagging frustration for the umpteenth time.

“Besides, the Headmaster will have my heart on a stake as it is,” Snape went on miserably.

Harry cocked his head thoughtfully. “Will the protective magic prevent you from ripping my throat out when you can't resist the temptation any longer?”

Snape’s lack of response was oddly reassuring.

Harry had actually been thinking about it for quite a while (albeit with a fuzzy, hunger-addled brain) and he’d decided there were certainly far worse things than losing his virginity to Severus Snape, whether the man was reluctant or not. It might not be Remus or Eric. This wasn’t the Alcove and there was no sofa. But Harry hadn’t forgotten what he’d felt in the potions lab. If Snape hadn’t tossed him across the room, Harry could easily see having allowed himself to be bent over a worktable, shards of glass tubing littering the floor where Snape had raked them in order to make room on the tabletop for him to have his way with the boy. In fact, the vividness of this little fantasy was a bit startling.

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” Snape said now, though tensely, waking Harry from his bizarrely pleasant daydream. “And it may never. They may still find us before..." It seemed speaking their doom might bring it closer, and Snape couldn't bring himself. "Besides, I’m not about to let you throw away your bloody virginity on your greasy old Potions Master!” he sputtered.

“Well, whether it’s bloody or not would be entirely up to you, Severus,” Harry purred. Eric might be onto something with this seduction bit. It was fun.

“ _Don’t call me by my first name_ ,” Snape growled--rather dangerously--and the shiver it induced in Harry was not from fear.

“I think it’s going to be a little awkward shouting out ‘Professor’ in the throes of passion,” Harry sighed, growing tired despite the entertaining banter.

“THERE WILL BE NO RUDDY THROES, HARRY!”

Snape’s shout echoed throughout the cell, sobering the young man considerably. He stared at Snape, again wishing he could see the man properly. “You’d really rather kill me?” he asked, unquestionably hurt. “Do you find me that repulsive?” He heard Snape swallow uncomfortably, but the man did not answer. He only began to wring his hands, seeming on the verge of some breakdown. Harry scowled at him across the darkness. “And what if,” he ventured hesitantly, “what if my suggesting this doesn’t have all that much to do with saving my life?” It was true that Harry didn’t particularly want to die a virgin, but there was much more to it than that.

Snape stopped his wringing. In fact, he became eerily still, and Harry made up his mind, began groping his way through the dark toward Snape on his hands and knees. “What are you doing?” Snape asked with a note of panic. “ _Stay where you are._ ” Harry ignored him, crawling over to the man unhindered despite the command. Snape leaned away from him a bit but was otherwise immobile as Harry knelt before him.

“What exactly are you doing?” asked Snape. It was meant to be withering, though Harry noticed Snape’s breathing was shallow. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to trust himself to touch Harry, even to push him away.

“I’m seeing you,” Harry replied plainly, tracing his fingertips over Snape’s face. It was rather fascinating. Harry knew what Snape looked like, had glared at his visage often enough and for long enough to have memorised every feature. But touching them was different. There was a kind of grace to the sweeping curves and hollows of Snape’s face, in the sharpness of his cheekbones and the cut of his chin. Snape released a long, shuddering breath as Harry stroked his index finger down the delightfully intricate contour of the man's trademark nose.

The seeing world might underappreciate the form of Snape’s face, Harry thought, but to a blind man, he was surely a pleasure to behold. How boring beautiful people must seem to the sightless. Just smooth, uninteresting curves. But _here_ was a treasure of texture and shape. He had fine, arching eyebrows, and the area under his eyes was soft as silk, interrupted at the corners by crow’s feet that spidered to his slightly sunken temples. Harry found it all so engrossing. He caressed his way to Snape’s mouth, noticing with a smile that the curl at the corners from years of smirking seemed now to be carved into his very muscles. He ran his finger across the man’s thin lips, enjoying the warm puff of breath on his knuckles where they parted. Harry could feel through them the unmistakable contour of elongated canines.

And this seemed to be where Snape drew the line. He snatched Harry’s fingers in his own and drew them a short ways from his skin, holding him still, though he did not expel Harry bodily from his presence. They were both short of breath.

“You know, you don’t have a bad face,” Harry said softly.

“I suppose it’s complemented by the lighting here,” Snape whispered sneeringly.

“Oh, come on,” Harry gently argued, reclaiming his hand and placing it on the wall beside Snape’s head to help with his precarious balance. He wasn’t exactly in Snape’s lap, but he was dangerously close to it. “You’re...handsome...in your own way.”

Snape laughed softly. “Harry, I am not now, nor have I ever been, considered handsome. Even by the most desperate and depraved of undesirables.”

Harry’s thoughts turned sour and went immediately to the _once-ravishing Loraina_ , and he scowled, sitting back on his feet. “You’re right,” he said.

“Well,” Snape answered, slightly affronted, “don’t bother with polite hesitation.”

“You aren’t handsome,” Harry repeated, “but you’re attractive...in an intense, exclusively ‘Snape’ sort of way,” he said thoughtfully.

The man sighed, apparently having had enough of this strange episode. He rose to his feet, careful not to touch Harry in any way, and stepped away from him. “You, Harry, are simply oversexed,” he said, though Harry could hear his voice was unsteady, which gave Harry heart. He stood as well, drawn to the Potions Master, who was still turned away from him. “It has caused you to see attraction where it does not exist,” Snape reasoned to him over his shoulder.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Harry said, his own voice steady if a but rough. Snape seemed highly unsettled, practically running away from the young man, though in their confines that equated to approximately three steps.

“I've seen your idea of seduction already,” Snape said disdainfully, turning back to face him. “It's juvenile.”

“But effective?” Harry asked cheekily, willing his desperate hope not to show in his expression. When he got no response, Harry sighed and resumed leaning against the wall, tamping down a disappointment that was surprisingly bitter. “You really can't consider that seduction, you know,” he said dismissively, crossing his arms. “I only kissed you because...well, because I was angry with you, strange as that sounds.”

“Not as strange as you'd think,” Snape muttered, starting his damned pacing again. “But that was not what I was referring to.”

“Well, I didn't have to seduce Eric,” Harry said with a reminiscent smile. “It was the other way around, really.” Harry thought he might have heard Snape grumble at the mention of the other boy’s name, but he didn't otherwise respond as he continued his measure of the cell. “Wait,” Harry said, something slowly dawning on him. “You don't _mean_ Eric.”

“Stop saying his _bloody_ name,” Snape spat.

Harry scowled. “You mean-”

“The Mutt?” Snape snapped, turning on him. “Yes, Harry. I meant _Lupin_.”

“Wait. You've seen it?” he demanded indignantly, straightening and dropping his arms. “Does that mean you...?”

“Used Legilimency?” Snape sighed witheringly. “No, Harry, I do not have enough interest in yours or Lupin's sexual practices to waste my talent and energy in thieving a peek at them,” he said. But unconvincingly. Harry did not doubt him about the Legilimency, but there was something else Snape wasn't telling him. Harry was annoyed now and wouldn't leave it alone, despite that he could practically feel Snape's irritation like a physical force, radiating from him.

“So how? Tell me.”

Snape recommenced wringing his hands, which was suddenly less endearing than a moment ago. “I had deposited a memory in the Pensieve for the Headmaster to review,” he explained, dripping with exasperation. “But when I went to retrieve it, I accidentally claimed the wrong one,” he admitted reluctantly.

Harry stared at Snape, not wanting to accept what he thought the man was telling him. But then he couldn’t stave off the revelation any longer and Harry reeled. “What? _Dumbledore's_ seen it?” Harry felt violated. “Why?”

“I would imagine to exonerate Lupin of any wrongdoing,” Snape replied as if that should be obvious.

“Wrongdoing?” Harry sputtered, still gobsmacked. “But, it's not like I'm technically underage. I mean legally-”

“Oh, you are so _naïve_ , Harry,” Snape huffed. “Besides, I’ve explained to you the importance of your purity. Albus has guarded it closely, and if he’d suspected Lupin of imperilling it, he would have skinned the wolf alive.” 

That shut Harry up. But not for good. After a long, extremely uncomfortable silence, during which Snape continued to pace and turn, Harry couldn’t help himself any longer. “So what does that mean?” he asked. “You took his memory? You saw it?”

“I didn't see it, Harry,” Snape said tensely. “I lived it.” Harry was lost, and no doubt Snape could read it in his expression. “When one uses the Pensieve it is like watching the memory as a bystander,” Snape explained peevishly. “You know this.”

“But when you put someone else's memory in your own head...” Harry prompted impatiently.

“Yes, Harry!” Snape hissed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You experience it as if the memory were your own! As if everything that was done or said was through you; your own body, your own thoughts, your own sensations. You _get_ it now. Can we please stop discussing it!”

If Harry thought he was overwhelmed before, it was nothing to this. “So when you take it back out, do you stop?” Harry asked, trying to wrap his head around it. “Do you stop feeling those things?”

Snape sighed irritably. “In a way, Harry. I'd really rather not-”

“What do you mean, in a way?” Harry insisted. He rather felt he was entitled to know the details.

“I mean that it abates!” Snape snapped. “It's disorienting. The memory becomes one of your own but without the context.” He sounded exhausted by Harry's questioning and sighed, slumping against the wall.

Harry struggled to fully comprehend the implications of what Snape had said. He had seen Harry in Remus' rooms. Had seen him strip his cloak. Had felt him take Remus by the neck and force their lips together. He had felt it as if Harry had done it to Snape himself. Harry wasn't sure how to feel about this. Granted, he'd done something similar to Snape, too, but this was different. That night was so precious to him and so very private between the two of them, Remus and Harry. But still, the thought that Snape had experienced it... _and_ experienced Remus' reaction...

It was practically a sacrilege, but Harry was rather turned on. Snape hadn't just felt in a tactile sense what Remus had done, how he had touched Harry, he had felt what Remus had felt internally. He'd felt his confliction...

_His desire._

“So, earlier in the dungeon, you weren't strictly angry with me,” Harry said, working it out aloud. “You were-”

“Oh, I was most definitely angry,” Snape spat, cutting him off. He seemed to know exactly where Harry was going with this line of questioning and was trying to head him off.

“But not _just_ ,” Harry prodded, unable to keep the smile from his face. “You were-” He gasped with a sudden revelation. “And when you pulled me from the alcove!”

With a quiet snarl his only warning, Harry suddenly found himself in Snape's grasp. One of Snape's claw-like hands dug itself into Harry's hair to the scalp, wrenching back his head so Snape could draw Harry's neck to his face. The other pressed him like a vise against the Potions Master's long, thin, rigid body, forcing Harry to cling to him as his feet no longer quite reached the floor. Harry gasped at the violence of it, the abruptness of it. And though it hurt, he might not have managed to catch the moan that rose in his throat if Snape hadn’t stolen all his breath.

“What do you want me to say, Harry?” Snape asked in a dusky, almost inhuman growl. “That my response wasn't just frustration at your weakening of the protections? That I was jealous? _Of course, I was jealous_ ,” he confessed in a fierce, low rush so that Harry had to strain to catch it all. “I had had in my head, just moments before finding you, the memory of a randy Werewolf who thinks the sun and moon rise and set out of your arse. I had _just_ known not only the desire for it but the actual feel of your skin beneath my hand, of your tongue in my mouth. And then suddenly there you were with someone else. Some _boy_ ,” he spat angrily against Harry's neck. “The little bastard was lucky I was so pissed at you or else he would not have escaped unscathed. _This_ ,” Snape hissed, tightening his grip in Harry's hair and roughly tugging his body even tighter to his own. “This is _mine_ ,” Snape growled, “and _how dare some pubescent aspiring Casanova dare to lay hands on it.”_

 _Fuck_.

Harry’s chest heaved. He could feel in Snape's shaking steel grip at his scalp, in the thin, snarling lips ghosting gently over Harry's jugular as Snape spoke, that the man was fighting with all he was worth not to let the teeth positioned over Harry's throat sink into it. It was the single most terrifying and arousing experience of Harry's life: this co-mingling of danger and desire; almost wanting Snape to tear into him even if it meant his death. Harry trembled, poised, waiting...knowing that the next few seconds could be his last, or else his best. Or quite possibly even both.

Snape seemed to calm by degrees. He didn't release Harry, he only loosened his grip, cradling him though giving him no room for escape. His lips never left Harry's throat.

“People misunderstand a vampire's craving for virgin blood, Harry,” Snape whispered, the movement of his lips on Harry's skin sending chills chasing up and down Harry's body and making him loose a series of trembling gasps. “It's less a hunger and more of an arousal. It's almost...sexual,” he breathed, kissing Harry's neck caressingly, more than once. Harry shuddered in Snape's arms, held him more tightly. “Even without that goddamned memory, I can fucking _smell_ you, Harry,” he moaned. “And you're perfect. Your blood, it's the right age: new but experienced. Pure, but not too pure. Darkness and light in perfect proportion, just enough to give it complexity,” he intoned, running the flat of his tongue over the fluttering pulse in Harry's neck, causing the young man to whimper. It could easily have been mistaken for fear if it hadn't been for the unavoidable twitching of Harry's erection which Snape held pinned between them.

Satisfyingly, Harry could feel Snape sported one of his own, pressed firmly against Harry's thigh.

“So, do I want to fuck you, Harry?” he asked softly, finally moving away from Harry's veins and trailing soft, lazy kisses down Harry's jawline. “Of course, I do. Do I want to tear out your throat and drain you? More than anything. But after all the trouble I've been put through to keep you alive--practically against your will--I suppose we can easily divine which I'll actually do.” His ghostly kisses had reached the corner of Harry's mouth and Harry was ready, so ready for Snape’s lips to take that last step.

“Mind the teeth,” Snape warned quietly, and then he smothered Harry's mouth with his own. Finally, Snape's iron grip relaxed and Harry twisted in the man’s arms, snaking his own around Snape's neck and kissing him as if his life depended on it, as if he were a man in the desert on the brink of death finally coming to an oasis, drinking Snape in in long, satisfying draughts.

Snape, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to gather all of Harry up in his hands at one time, becoming frustrated by the impossibility of it. He clawed at Harry’s clothes until the fabric finally gave and he could peel Harry’s shirt from him without the necessity of breaking their kiss. Harry didn’t know what became of the rags and he didn’t care. Snape swept one palm firmly up Harry’s spine to clutch at the nape of the young man's neck while the other sought the small of his back.

Their cell was freezing, and Harry’s nipples were instantly taut, chaffing against the harsh fabric of Snape’s robes. Harry pawed at them, pushing them aside to attack the endless buttons down the man’s front. _Why were there so many of the damned fiddly things?_ Harry whimpered his frustration into Snape’s mouth and the man reluctantly relinquished Harry’s bare flesh to take over the task himself, going about it with a practiced efficiency that was hindered somewhat by Harry’s attempt to strip Snape before he was finished. As the last of the buttons came free, Harry heaved the heavy layers of fabric from Snape’s shoulders; and then they met, flesh to flesh, sweating despite the chill in the air, and it was delicious. Harry wasted no time in moving on to Snape’s trousers.

“Harry,” he mumbled against the boy’s lips, as Harry refused to surrender Snape’s. To Harry’s frustration, Snape brought his hands to Harry’s shoulders and forcibly separated them.

“ _What?”_ Harry demanded, his hands rising to Snape’s chest in order to locate a nipple so Harry could bend to taste it. Snape’s hand tangled itself tightly in Harry’s hair and he moaned.

“I believe there is a process to this,” Snape panted, “but I’ve never personally--Oh my, _do that again_ ,” Snape commanded him.

Harry obeyed, catching Snape’s nipple in his teeth once more; and as he did so, Harry fished in his trouser pocket. He located Snape’s still-wandering hand and clasped it by the wrist to press the pocket’s contents into his palm, wrapping the man’s fingers around it. Then Harry heard Snape growl, presumably once he realised what Harry had just handed him. Again, it was barely human, making Harry think of a large feline predator. The hand in Harry’s hair used it to peel the boy from Snape’s chest and draw him back to the man’s lips.

“Clothes,” he snarled into the hollow of Harry’s collarbone. “Off. _Now_. _”_

Harry felt himself abandoned as Snape stepped away to remove his own clothes. Harry toed off his shoes. His trousers had barely cleared his ankles before Snape snatched him up again, this time from behind. The man ran his hands over Harry’s torso, down the flat plane of Harry’s stomach, hovering teasingly over the young man's twitching cock.

“I’ve never been with a man before,” Snape confessed in a sultry purr in Harry’s ear. “But I must say, you’re rather stunning.”

Harry let his head fall back onto Snape’s shoulder as the Potions Master finally, slowly, took Harry in hand. Snape was rough, unpracticed, everything Eric hadn’t been. And Harry loved it. “Pull my hair again,” he panted. Snape grunted in approval, snatching up a handful of unruly black strands and pulling Harry’s head back to smother him with another kiss.

“On your knees.”

Harry couldn’t drop fast enough, bruising himself on the cold, hard stone floor of their cell and bending forward to rest on his elbows. Harry couldn’t quite identify the noise that Snape made but assumed it was approving as he immediately felt the caress of Snape’s hand on his arse.

“You should know,” Harry said tremulously, “if you don’t already...Eric and I never made it this far.”

The hand on his arse clenched painfully and Harry gasped. “ _Never speak that name in my presence again_ ,” Snape said in a low hiss. Harry nodded quickly and the hand relaxed, though Harry had no doubt he would have a crescent of five small, neat bruises. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the man said, much more mildly, caressing once again. Harry stopped breathing for a moment when he heard the tiny ‘pop’ of a stopper being removed from a glass phial.

Harry’s heart beat so loudly he wondered if Snape could hear it. All Harry could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and his own shallow breathing. His entire body sang with anticipation. And then, one cool, slick finger glanced hesitantly against his opening, and Harry almost felt he might faint. He pressed back slightly, asking for more than the teasing brush Snape was currently giving him, and the man responded by massaging firm circles around Harry’s pucker.

“ _O-oh gods,”_ Harry shuddered, his head dangling between his shoulders. What Snape was doing felt so alien. Almost wrong but good at the same time. Harry was trembling so hard he could barely keep himself from falling forward, but he dared not move. What was being done to him seemed almost dangerous.

Snape rested a hand on Harry’s hip and leaned over him to speak softly, “Are you ready?”

Harry took a moment to consider. He was. He wanted it suddenly more than anything but was frightened of it at the same time. Enough to hesitate. Snape stopped his ministrations and Harry whined. “No. Don’t stop,” he panted. “I’m fine. I’m...I’m ready.” Harry gulped. Waited.

Slowly--so slowly--Snape curled his finger, pressing more firmly until Harry finally felt himself stretch to admit it. It hurt but not terribly. It was more...uncomfortable. Harry held his breath, concentrating, as the digit crept further inside him.

“You must relax, Harry,” Snape whispered, his voice drawn with his own desire. But how could anyone relax at a time like this? It seemed so counterintuitive. Everything Harry had done so far had wound him taut as a bowstring, and now he was meant to relax? When his prick ached and his chest was so tight he couldn’t draw breath? But the finger had stopped, and it seemed it would not proceed until Harry had done as he was told. Harry supposed he should start by forcing himself to breathe.

“That’s better,” Snape encouraged, stroking Harry’s back. Harry felt one knuckle breach him, then the other, and soon Snape’s entire finger was enveloped. Harry could feel the man’s hand shaking. “Alright?” Snape asked him huskily. Harry nodded and the finger withdrew, returned, working itself carefully in and out of him. And soon all the wrong fell away and nothing was left but good. Harry pressed back into Snape’s hand and worked his hips, wanting more. Snape obliged, adding a second finger, and Harry moaned as it slid home, stretching him further.

“I believe there’s meant to be…” Snape said, speaking mostly to himself as he turned his hand, twisting his fingers inside Harry and driving the boy mad. Snape curled his fingers experimentally, searching.

Harry’s strangled cry rang throughout their cell as Snape succeeded in locating Harry’s prostate. The young man was almost embarrassed by the stream of incoherent and entirely involuntary noises that spilled from his mouth but really was too overwhelmed by pleasure to care. It swam through his veins like a drug as Snape brushed the magic spot on every second or third thrust of his long, talented fingers.

“Snape,” he whined. “Please.”

 _“No,”_ the man snarled, never slowing his assault. “Call me Severus.”

 _“Severus!”_ Harry gasped, as turned on by the request as by what the man was doing to him. “I want...Can we?  _Please_.”

Snape carefully withdrew his fingers and was quiet for a time. Harry felt a single fingertip stroke his stretched opening almost admiringly. And then it was gone, replaced by something much larger that rested itself gently against him.

“Are you ready?” Snape said, his voice strained, apparently more than ready himself.

Harry considered. He shook his head. “No,” he said, rising and turning to Snape, who might have sobbed though bit it off quickly. “Not this way. Sit down,” Harry requested, pushing on Snape’s shoulders before straddling him. “I want to be able to kiss you,” Harry explained. “I like kissing you,” he said, blushing. Snape growled as he reached for Harry’s neck, bringing the boy to his lips.

This was much, much better, Harry decided: his tongue in Snape’s mouth, his cock brushing the man’s bare stomach. As they kissed, Harry reached behind him, taking Snape’s slick length and guiding it where he wanted it. Harry’s lips stilled but did not leave Snape’s as he pressed back.

“Careful,” the man warned in a tense whisper. “You mustn’t tear. If I smell blood…”

Harry paused but did not stop, easing himself down over Snape’s cock. It felt so much larger than it had in his hand. Impossibly large. But Harry simply reminded himself to breathe, relaxed his muscles, and sank slowly lower. Snape clutched at him, bruising his thighs, not breathing at all. Harry could tell he wanted to thrust his hips and was holding himself back, holding himself still, though the effort seemed to be costing him. Their lips drifted apart, Harry’s head falling back as he sank the last inch, seating himself firmly in Snape’s lap.

It felt like perfection to Harry. He was so full, and with more than just Snape’s cock. He was overwhelmed with the man himself, was flooded with emotions he didn’t understand but couldn’t deny. Harry looked down him, unable to see him but wanting to show him, with the expression on his face, everything he was feeling and thinking. And that is why Harry was confused to hear the something like grief in Snape's voice.

“It is done, Harry,” he said in a strained whisper. “We _could_ stop...if that is what you wanted.”

And then Harry understood. He’d passed the threshold. He was no longer a virgin. Whether or not they continued, the worst of the danger was gone. Harry was gutted. “Do you? Want to stop?” No doubt, Snape could hear the disappointment in his voice.

The man groaned, and Harry suddenly found himself on his back with Snape still buried deep inside of him. “I really don’t know why I asked. I’m not sure I could stop now if you wanted me to, Harry,” he said, carefully pulling back his hips. And Harry felt as if Snape were pulling on his very essence, could feel the withdrawal that deeply before Snape pressed back in making Harry whole again.

Nothing else that had ever happened to him, or might happen, seemed more important by any measure than what was happening to him right this moment.

Snape ran his hands down Harry’s arms and captured both his wrists in his hands, drawing them up to either side of Harry’s head and pressing them firmly to the floor as he sought the proper leverage. Then he slowly thrust again, and Harry’s eyes rolled back in his head. Snape carefully thrust once more and Harry moaned, from the centre of his being, like breathing out his soul.

“Tell me you want it, Harry,” Snape purred in his ear, thrusting again. Harry gasped. Writhed. Struggled to draw breath.

“ _Yes!_ Please, Severus,” he whined, wrapping his legs around Snape’s hips.

“Tell me.” Thrust. “Tell me what you want, Harry,” he said, hands still pinning Harry’s wrists, lips falling to the boy’s throat.

Harry felt himself colour an even brighter red than he was already burning. “I-I want you…”

“Yes?” Thrust.

“I want you to fuck me,” he panted. “ _Please, Severus_. Please, fuck me.”

Snape pulled back further than he had yet and slammed back into the young man. Harry was overwrought, undone. He wanted to kiss Snape, wanted to claw at his back, but Snape would not relinquish his wrists as he drove into him again, harder this time; deeper.

“Is that what you wanted, Harry?” Snape panted, trembling himself now. But Harry couldn’t answer because Snape was fucking him faster now, and all Harry could do was writhe and mewl and gasp beneath him.

Harry felt Snape’s teeth on his shoulder, not puncturing, only grazing the skin there. Snape groaned. “Come for me, Harry,” he begged, drilling the boy properly now.

 _“Touch me,”_ Harry managed to gasp, and Snape crossed Harry’s wrists, pressure painful as Snape propped himself up with the one hand left pinning them, and dropped his other hand to Harry’s leaking prick. It didn’t take long. Two, maybe three strokes before Harry was crying out and spilling over Snape’s fingers. The man moaned as the sticky warm stuff coated his hand, trembled, thrust once more, and then buried himself deep within the boy, spilling his own seed there.

Neither of them could seem to catch their breath. Snape rolled off of Harry to lay on his back, spent, one arm cast carelessly over the young man's stomach just to still touch him as Harry continued to shiver. “Are you alright?” Snape asked when he could manage, sounding abashed. “Did I hurt you?”

Harry simply laughed, breathless, and finally convinced his gelatinous appendages to move so he could drape himself over the man. He had bruises on top of bruises. But he didn’t mind. He was always bruised. “No,” he panted, smiling. “Not in a bad way."

Snape brought his arm around Harry, pressing the boy to him, idly stroking Harry’s arm. “No,” he agreed. “Not in a bad way at all.”


	41. To Be, or Not to Be: That is the Question

As the warmth of their afterglow faded, they remembered the chill of the air and of the stones and noticed the grit beneath their skin. Still, they didn't rush to dress. Severus simply reached over and tugged his robe from the pile of shed clothing beside them to cover them with it. Their bodies were still warm enough that holding each other kept them as comfortable as they'd been since being locked in. Neither of them spoke for a long while.

Harry was relaxed, but his weariness had yet to creep back up on him. His orgasm had left him feeling revitalised, though Severus seemed to be struggling with wakefulness. “Albus is going to kill me,” the man mumbled finally, breaking the silence.

“Virgin blood, remember?” Harry sighed, running his fingers down the man's chest. Severus' ribs were too prominent, he thought critically. But how does one go about fattening up a vampire? “You were tempted to snack. Nothing to be done,” Harry said as if the matter were closed. Severus grunted but didn't reply.

“I'd forgotten how messy sex is,” he griped softly instead. Harry understood his complaint. He was feeling sticky himself, and it became more unpleasant as time passed.

“Too bad we don't have our wands,” he agreed. “Scouring spells are so convenient.” His thoughts went to Eric and the Alcove, but he dared not voice them.

“I've never been sure how Muggles do without them.”

“I think they make a point of having a towel handy,” Harry supplied. Severus chuckled. Harry liked the sound. It was deep and rich. He could feel the rumble of it in the man's chest under his cheek.

“I meant wands in general. But yes, a towel would also be convenient just now.”

“Where're the remains of my shirt?” Harry asked, a thought suddenly striking him. They had both rags and water and that might suffice, though he shuddered to think how cold the bath would be.

“Apologies for that,” Severus muttered under his breath, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

“Severus, don't you dare apologise for anything that just happened. Ever. To anyone. _Especially_ me,” Harry smiled, snuggling closer to the man. He felt Severus' fingers on his face, thought the man might have been staring at him. Surely they were both wondering how long 'ever' would be.

Dreading their alternative to a scouring spell, Harry was still thinking about wands--or rather, their lack of them--when something occurred to him. “Severus, you said that sex was a Rite of Passage. That some magic becomes more powerful afterwards,” he queried, his mind beginning to whir. “What kinds exactly?”

“Well, that should be fairly obvious,” Severus said, slipping the arm not wrapped around Harry beneath his own head as though he thought a nap was in order. “The opposite of protective magic. Anything designed to harm, really.”

Harry was quiet for a moment. Then he stirred, carefully propping himself up on an elbow to look through the darkness toward the door of their cell. “Harry?” Severus questioned, perhaps unsettled by the thoughtful scowl on the young man's face. Harry didn't answer him. Instead, he extricated himself from the man's arms and slipped from beneath their makeshift blanket. “Harry, in all the years I’ve known you, that expression has never been a portent of any wise action on your part. What exactly are you thinking?” Severus said, sounding wary and suddenly more alert. He rose as well and draped his robe over Harry's shoulders. When the young man still failed to supply a response, Severus sighed and began rummaging for the rest of his clothes as Harry searched with blind fingers for the lock on their cell door.

“You said harmful magic,” he said absently. “ _Destructive_ magic.”

Severus abruptly stopped rummaging and slowly straightened to regard him. “ _No_ , Harry,” he said, equal parts concern and command.

“Why not? It might work,” Harry replied, having made up his mind.

“Or it might kill you,” the man said sternly. “Or close enough to it. Harry, you haven't eaten in days. You are too weak to attempt this.”

Harry ignored the warning, fingering the lock to gauge its whereabouts before taking a few steps back. But he lost his bearings when Severus took him roughly by the arm and turned him to face him. “ _Damn it, Harry_ ,” he growled, “I won't let you do this.” Harry scowled at him, pulling his arm from the man's grasp.

“We're dying, Severus,” he snapped back. “Either we get out this door,” he said, pointing at it, “or we're done. You said yourself we only bought ourselves a day at most. But you haven't had so much as a bloody rat in two. I don't think we're going to last that long. Or I won't. And while I can certainly think of worse ways to die, I don't want you to have to...” He broke off, overcome. Harry didn't want Severus to live with that guilt. The man carried too much as it was. Harry had no doubt the others would find Severus in time. But only if that time was bought with Harry's blood.

Severus stepped away from him, falling heavily against the wall of the cell. “I'm sorry for what I am, Harry,” he said dejectedly.

“You didn't choose to become what you are,” Harry said angrily, but his anger was on Severus' behalf, not directed toward him. “Voldemort stole both our futures. But I’ll be damned if I don’t choose my own fate,” he added determinedly under his breath as he turned to consider the door again.

Severus chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “Bloody Gryffindors,” he muttered bitterly. “Always so eager to die.” 

Harry was shaken by the comment. He looked to Severus, wanted to go to him but was half afraid the man might push him away. Harry's heart could not weather that rejection at the moment, not after what they had just done, and they had no time for Harry's possible despondency. The longer he delayed, the less likely it would be that this would work. Harry returned to the middle of the cell and began searching the floor for the remainder of his clothes. For some reason, he didn't quite like the thought of them finding his corpse naked.

 _But no_...It _might_ work. It might not kill him. No matter what Severus thought, no matter what Harry himself had thought just hours ago, he wasn't ready to die. He had to believe this was possible.

After watching him grope in the dark for a moment, Severus heaved a resigned sigh and lay a hand on Harry's shoulder, stilling him as he bent to retrieve Harry's trousers and socks and shoes for him. “I cannot believe you didn't manage to lose those bloody glasses somewhere along the way,” he muttered, handing Harry his clothes. Harry smiled. He'd often thought the same thing.

They dressed in silence, Severus closing and fastening his robe over Harry in lieu of the young man's ruined shirt. It was too long, but Harry found he liked it. He was determined to keep it if they made it out alive. He'd have it hemmed up. If Hermione had disliked Remus' cardigan, he wondered what she'd think about this. Harry could just imagine her face if he were to come down to dinner in it, and he couldn't help but laugh. Not a snicker, but a hearty belly-laugh. Severus stared at him.

“I told you you'd gone mad,” he whispered. “As if this plan wasn't proof enough of it.”

“No,” Harry chuckled, catching his breath. “It's just...Hermione,” he explained, falling back into giggles. Harry's laughter tapered off to a grin, but Severus stood solemnly to the side, turned away from the young man, and Harry’s amusement faded. “Why do you always expect the worst, Severus?” he asked softly.

“It keeps me alive,” the man replied, his voice stony.

“Well, I'm still alive and I don't think that way,” Harry argued.

“I've been at it longer,” Severus snipped at him. Harry's humour died completely and he sighed. He hoped the man managed it for a while longer still, with or without Harry.

The young man decided this was never going to get any easier and supposed he might as well get on with it. He turned back toward the door, unable to see it through the darkness yet knowing it was there. And then Severus' warnings and the memory of what had happened days earlier hit him. This might be it. This time he might never wake. If he failed and if the spell didn't kill him, either Severus or starvation might before he regained consciousness. He trembled. It wasn’t death Harry was afraid of, but rather things left unsaid. He turned towards the Potions Master with sudden urgency, reaching for him. And Severus took hold of his blindly groping hand, leading Harry into the man's arms.

“You don't have to do this, Harry,” he whispered, failing at the stoicism for which he seemed to be aiming.

“You know I do,” Harry said, his voice trembling despite his resolution. “But, Severus, I wanted to say I'm sorry: for all these years, for my disrespect. I didn't know. I thought...”

Severus hushed him, gently brushing his chaotic hair away from his face, a gesture so tender, so appreciated, that Harry allowed his eyes to flutter closed for a moment. “We've both been idiots, Harry,” he said softly. The young man gave a quiet laugh, dropping his forehead against the man's chest.

“Thank you, Severus,” he said quietly after a moment, pulling away as he did, and Severus reluctantly let him go. “For everything.”

Harry was ready now. He found the lock again, stepped back from it, and reached inside himself. The spell was definitely stronger now, despite Harry's weakened state. And it was restless, like a creature that had been locked away for too long. But Harry didn't rush. He knew he only had one chance at this. He tugged at his depths, gently coaxing the power within him to pool larger. He visualised the dark and the light, the blades and the fire, and drew them to his surface. The spell writhed within him, ready to be untethered.

And so he loosed it.

 _“Animus Secretum,”_ he breathed. The orb materialised before his scar, painfully bright after days of complete darkness, swelling so large it quickly obscured his vision. But not before he fixed his sight on the lock of their cell, assigning his intent into it. And then Harry breathed again, and the orb left him. The world around them exploded with light and, almost instantly, Harry's sight went dark. He never even felt himself hit the floor.

 


	42. Grief Sprung from Neglected Love

Harry felt as if he were floating in darkness. The sensation was almost exactly as it had been that night in Dumbledore's office when he had been cradled on the cusp of consciousness. He wondered if he'd meet Voldemort again now, and if the villain would be delighted to know the young bane of his existence would trouble him no more.

But no...Harry wasn't dead. Death would surely be gentler, would not be so jostling or his passage to the Other Side so stuttering. Then he felt himself fly, pitched to the ground where he landed hard and rolled. He most definitely was alive, and Severus had been carrying him. Had been carrying him and had dropped him. They were still in the dungeons, _but they were moving_.

Harry heard Severus stagger slowly towards him, grunting with the effort of simply walking. He felt the man burrow weak arms beneath Harry's knees and shoulders to lift him again. Harry knew he had to stop him. “No,” he managed to say in a weak, rasping whisper.

 _“Harry?”_ Severus gasped, amazed, as if he hadn't expected to ever hear the young man's voice again.

“Don't,” Harry groaned.

“What is it?” Severus asked: anxious, concerned, weary. “Are you hurt?”

“No, not hurt,” Harry grunted. “You...you can't carry me anymore. Let me walk,” he panted. Severus scoffed, dismissing the notion, and went to lift him anyway. “Severus, you're too weak. Just give me a moment,” Harry begged, not sure where he would find this miraculous reserve of energy but knowing neither of them would make it out if Severus insisted on lifting him again. The man finally accepted it himself and abandoned his attempt to bear the young man, collapsing on the floor beside him instead.

“Gods, Harry,” he said, surprising the young man with the depth of feeling in his voice. “After that blast, I was so sure...” 

“I'm not dead yet, Severus,” he assured the man with a tired smile. “You'll have to put up with me for a while longer.” But talking was tiring. He reached toward the Potions Master, who found Harry's hand and held it in his own.

“I recognise this part of the dungeon,” Severus told him. “There is still a ways to go, but we should be able to make it, Harry.”

“I knew we would,” Harry said incorrigibly.

“Well, we aren't out yet,” Snape warned. “And we don't know what we'll meet before we are,” he added ominously. “Are you sure you can walk?”

“No. But I'm sure you can't carry me. Help me up,” Harry said, struggling upright with Severus' assistance. The two bore each other, arms draped over shoulders, the one pulling the other back to his feet whenever they stumbled. Severus shepherded them into the occasional turn, but mostly the way was straight, and the corridor seemed to Harry as if it would go on forever. Then, just as their energy started to wane to dangerous levels, they saw a red glow in the distance. Severus still held Harry, perhaps convinced they would both fall if he didn't, but he turned them so as to shield the young man from the possible threat. Though it went without saying that, without their wands, they were both completely helpless.

Harry could tell the light was relatively dim, but after so long in the dark, it was almost painful. There seemed to be more than one...but then Harry remembered his glasses were broken. The two stood motionless as the light grew larger, came closer, and then Severus' hold around him relaxed and he heaved a sigh of relief that wilted him from head to toe.

“What? What it is, Severus?” Harry asked, not daring to hope. He squinted down the passage, which grew steadily brighter though remained blurry. Slowly, the light resolved itself into a torch, held in a familiar hand.

“Harry, is that you?” The question echoed off the stones as if the walls were gasping. It was almost too wonderful to be possible. “I've found them!” Remus called into his wand as he jogged forward, sending a messenger orb shooting back down the passageway behind him.

 _“Remus?”_ Harry sobbed. He staggered from Severus' arms and down the passageway to meet the man as he rushed towards them to sweep Harry up in a tight embrace.

“Oh, gods. Oh, _Harry,”_ Remus cried into the young man's hair, kissing the crown of his head. “I thought I'd lost you. I thought...I am _never_ letting you go again,” he vowed in a vehement whisper. Harry burrowed his face in Remus' chest, so relieved he could weep. Remus' arms were strong, and the man smelled of comfort and safety. Harry knew Severus was watching and would misunderstand, but he couldn't help himself. It was Remus! And they were _saved_.

But then Harry felt Remus stiffen. “Severus.” There was violence in Remus' voice as he lifted his face from Harry's shoulder. _“What have you done?”_ he asked accusingly. One did not need a lupine sense of smell to catch the scent of rut that still clung to both the captives. Remus' eyes whispered murder, never leaving Severus as he moved Harry gently to the side and stalked over to the other man.

“I believe, Lupin, that I kept him _alive,_ ” Severus said. His eyes didn't match the acid of his tongue, but his chin did rise defiantly just as Remus' fist connected with it. Severus had to have seen the punch coming. Harry had seen it himself, but his reflexes were so slowed by hunger and exhaustion he hadn't managed to cry out in time.

 _“Remus!”_ Harry gasped, stumbling over to restrain the man, as if he would have been able. He weakly shoved Remus to the side, tripping over himself to reach the Potions Master and help the man unsteadily to his feet to rest back against the wall. Harry hated seeing the hot, red stain on Severus' face and gently lifted his hand to it. But the man snatched his fingers away, just as he had in their cell.

“Leave it, Potter,” he said quietly. Harry's breath froze in his chest.

_Potter._

Shame diluted Severus' scowl, finishing the thought he had left unspoken: _I deserved it_. He would not meet Harry's eyes.

Harry stumbled back, wounded to his core. _This_ man could not be feeling remorse for what they had done. Surely. This man could not doubt Harry's sincerity. If he would only look, he would see in Harry's eyes how the young man felt. But after all they'd been through, all they'd done together, _to_ each other...now that Harry could finally see _him_ , Severus refused to be seen, refused to be touched. Harry felt as if his chest were imploding, as if his whole world was.

Lost, Harry turned to Remus just in time to see him understand the exchange, understand Harry's reaction. Harry had looked just in time to watch the man's heart break. It hit Remus with almost as much force as he'd struck Snape, and he had to lift a hand to the wall beside him to steady himself, his face evincing the same pain Harry was feeling inside.

Harry closed his eyes, too exhausted even to weep. It was almost too much for him. Despite what he'd just lived through, it was _this_ that broke him. It had taken them both, but it was done. Harry fell to his knees. He was spent in every way. Both men made a move to assist him, but both stopped themselves short; one not knowing if he was welcomed still, the other not knowing if he dared. Harry tried to understand how so much wrong had happened in so short a time, just when fortune seemed to smile on them. How had they all ended up so wounded by each other?

“Let's get out of this fucking hole,” Harry muttered bitterly, eventually pulling himself to his feet, not caring what either of them thought of his foul language. “I'm ready to see the sky.”

Remus led the way, helping Harry walk in the end, after all, as Harry would not have made it otherwise and Severus trailed behind them. He would no longer touch the young man. The fresh air was almost as delicious as Harry remembered food being, and the moon overhead was still full enough to flush the world with light. After the long darkness of the dungeon, it was as bright as the sun. Harry spied several others, members of the Order whom he had seen before in the halls of Grimmauld Place. But it was Dumbledore who caught sight of them first. He rushed to meet them when they stepped out of a door in the Malfoy family crypt, taking the arm Harry didn't have slung over Remus' shoulder to help him carry the young man.

It took him slightly longer than it had Remus, but abruptly the Headmaster paused and turned a violent look on the Potions Master. Snape didn't heed it. Instead, he rushed past them to attend to the still figure lying on the soft grass of a new grave, a tombstone at her head as if the plot were her own.

Harry watched as Severus bent over Cobbleshot, checking her pulse before allowing himself to breathe again, then gently stroking the dirty, blonde hair from her face. Harry knew the scene should have evoked something in him other than the bile he tasted in the back of his throat. They lowered Harry onto a gravestone to rest, and Dumbledore didn't even pause to speak to him before turning to confront Severus. Harry's hand went to the sleeve of the Headmaster's robe, clutching it with weak but determined fingers.

 _“Leave him,”_ Harry warned. Dumbledore turned a questioning look back down on the young man, and Harry's eyes echoed the quiet threat in his voice. “All of you. Do you hear me? Leave Severus the hell alone.”

The Headmaster seemed momentarily shocked but recovered himself quickly. “Of course, Harry. No one is threatening Professor Snape,” he placated. Harry sneered. Severus would have a bruise tomorrow proving the man wrong. “The circumstances are simply...disappointing in their way. But of no consequence, if you are unharmed.”

Remus knelt beside Harry, kindness and concern written in every line of his face, close but careful not to touch him. Harry _wanted_ to be touched, to be held. He wanted to throw his arms around the man and weep and be petted. But it wasn't right. It wouldn't be fair to Remus. Especially considering the reason why Harry felt like weeping.

“Harry, _did_ he...?” Remus began gently, but the cold fire in Harry's expression caused him to change tact. “ _Are_ you unhurt?”

“I'm tired, Remus. And I'm hungry,” Harry sighed wearily. “And yes, I am hurt,” he said, glancing over to where Severus still stooped next to Cobbleshot. Harry was hurt in so many ways, though none about which they were asking. “But that was the Malfoys' doing, not Severus'. Can we please just go home now?” he finished in a pleading whisper.

“Of course, Harry,” Dumbledore said kindly, laying a hand on Harry's shoulder. Without another word, they Apparated; and the next thing Harry knew, he was clean and fed, lying in his bed at Grimmauld Place.

Alone.

 


	43. For Us, and For Our Tragedy

Snape’s robe lay draped across the empty bed beside Harry’s. The young man stared at it for long hours as he recovered. No one had offered to wash it yet. No one dared even touch it, likely due to the way Harry fixated on it. It was dirty, stained, and he knew some of those stains contained his own DNA. That knowledge made him feel an ember of warmth inside him despite the chill that still sat around his heart.

The enigma of Severus Snape would not let Harry go. For all that he was rough around the edges, the man's heart was far from black as Harry had always supposed it to be. Severus cared, or had the capacity to care, about others. He cared enough about his school sweetheart to defy the most powerful Dark Wizard of this age. He cared enough about Harry not to leave him behind when Severus could have easily escaped the dungeons alone, even when he hadn't expected the young man to survive anyway and carrying out his corpse might have cost him his own life.

Harry would never forget the way Severus had touched him; and not just in the heat of passion, but afterwards when he had held Harry close, stroked his arm and touched his face. Or in the corridor when he had held Harry's hand, and when he had attempted to shield the young man from possible harm even when Severus was completely helpless himself. His touch had been different from Remus'. It had meant more somehow because such a thing was not in the man's nature as it was in Remus'. Harry had been given something rare. Had been given it and then had it snatched away.

Still, Severus cared about Harry, the young man was sure of it. He had heard it in the man's voice when the Potions Master had visited Dumbledore's office that night. He had seen it in his eyes as he had reached for Harry before Lucius struck Severus down.

Why, then, had he heard no word from him? Nor seen him at all since Harry had been brought to Grimmauld Place?

Of course, Remus had told Harry that Severus had gone back to Hogwarts after seeing Cobbleshot safely admitted to a specialised treatment facility where she was recovering from garlic poisoning. But that didn't answer Harry's question. It told him where the man was but not why he wasn't _there_. With Harry.

Remus was covering Cobbleshot's classes until such time as she returned, or until the Board of Governors sought to remove him. But since he had technically resigned before, there was nothing preventing him from accepting Cobbleshot's duties. Despite this, Harry still saw Remus daily.

And Harry hated what had happened to them, what _he_ had done to them.

Where once their relationship had been easy as breathing, now Harry and Remus filled their time together with uncomfortable silences, or else inane chattering on Remus’ part. The man sat with him for long periods every evening, though Harry wasn’t sure if Remus forced himself or if he couldn't help himself...or if it was a combination of the two. Harry wanted Remus near but didn't seem to want to speak to him. His presence was a comfort, as always, but Harry could not bring himself to confide in him about what weighed on his heart, and he refused to elaborate on what had happened in the dungeon. So most nights, Remus essentially spoke to himself. He stated that Draco had, in fact, survived. The boy was presently at St. Mungo's under heavy guard. Lucius was back in Azkaban, having never gotten the opportunity to alert Voldemort of their capture. Harry's note and Narcissa's cooperation had been key in  preventing the disclosure, and Cobbleshot's presence at Hogwarts seemed, for the moment, to still be a secret.

But Harry found he didn't particularly care about any of these things. As Remus spoke, he stared at the dirty black robe, wondering about the one thing he didn't dare discuss with the man who was nursing him back from the brink.

“When can I go back to Hogwarts?” Harry finally asked from his bed one evening. He no longer needed to be on bed-rest and had been wandering the house by day. But he usually had grown weary of empty rooms and hallways by the time Remus returned each night. “It's not that I don't want to be here with you, Remus,” Harry added quickly, pulling his eyes from the robe to give Remus an apologetic look. “I just-”

“You are under no obligation to explain yourself to me, Harry,” Remus said softly.

“But I do want to. Explain myself, I mean,” Harry told him sincerely. “I just can't. Because I don't really understand myself.”

“Is it the boy?” Remus asked, grief and hope mingling themselves in his voice.

“Boy?” Harry asked, confused.

“I had heard that there was a boy,” Remus confessed hesitantly. He seemed to feel bad for possessing this knowledge, though Harry didn't hold it against him. Harry's sex life was a topic for public discussion, it seemed. Or it had been when it still mattered.

“Oh,” Harry said, finally understanding. “No. Eric and I...that was…” Harry hesitated, realising he couldn’t tell Remus what it really had been. “It was nothing. _Is_ nothing,” he said, blushing slightly. Remus might not have been happy with any reply Harry gave, but this one, punctuated by Harry's gaze drifting back to the bed beside him, appeared to be least welcome.

Remus sighed. “Harry, I'm not going to tell you what to feel or for whom,” he said, his eyes sad, worried. “But have you thought about this? About what it would mean? What it would require?” Harry turned red and toyed with his coverlet. He'd thought of little else since he'd first woken there after three days of blessed oblivion. “Severus will not be an easy man to love,” Remus cautioned. “Assuming he'd have you, you'd have to remind him how,” he warned Harry.

Harry had every faith in Severus' ability to love, though was rather amazed that his guardian seemed to be condoning Harry's pursuit of a man twice Harry's age. But then he remembered that normal rules did not apply to him. It seemed more and more as if any given day could be Harry's last. Who, then, could begrudge him this possible happiness? Though no doubt Remus would rather have been the one to give it to him. He would no doubt have better known how to go about it. It was simply a shame he'd been too noble to seize the role when it was offered.

“He deserves it, though. Don't you think?” Harry argued distractedly. “He deserves to be loved. To be happy.”

“Everyone deserves such a thing, Harry. But is that your only reason for pursuing this?” Remus asked, gently forcing Harry's introspection. “And how can you be certain this would make him happy? Something like this, Harry...It can be neither selfish nor selfless. It has to be both at the same time. And it has to be mutual,” he added, illuminating the rarity of such an occurrence. “Or else you will both be hurt.”

Like _they_ were both hurting now, Harry realised, because of Harry's selfishness. “I'm so sorry, Remus,” he whispered, eyes stinging.

“No,” Remus said kindly with a firm shake of his head. “That wasn't what I meant, Harry. But you see what I am saying,” he added, without condemnation. “I simply want you to think about these things. Thoroughly. A heart is not something to trifle with, whether or not it belongs to someone else.”

Harry stared at the man. He really was an amazing creature, Harry thought. Remus was still kind even after what Harry had done to him, what he was presently doing to him. Despite everything, Remus was still patient and guiding. He was an excellent guardian, and no doubt a better lover. But sadly, Harry's heart was spoken for. He only wondered if it would ever be claimed.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, his chest aching. “You know, I do love you, Remus,” he said, being selfish again but unable to stop the words from coming. “Just not in that way. Not anymore,” he finished tragically.

“I know,” Remus replied, tearing up himself. “And I love you, Darling. Nothing will ever change that,” he vowed. “'We' simply weren't meant to be. But you don't have to fret over me,” he assured him. “You chase your own happiness where you can find it, Harry,” he urged, “if you think you know where to look.” Remus lay a hand over Harry’s and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. It was light but lingering, and both their cheeks were wet before it ended.

When they Apparated to the Castle gates the next morning, Hermione was there to greet them, already crying silently. Remus patted Harry on the back and stepped past the two, continuing on alone to give them some privacy. Hermione took in the sight of him and seemed to grow even more upset. Harry knew he'd looked more robust. His time in the dark without food had left him thinner, gaunt, despite their valiant attempts to fatten him up at Grimmauld Place. Harry simply hadn't had much interest in food beyond what was required to fuel the functioning of his body, and barely then. He hadn't much cared for the feel of sunlight, either.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

Harry gathered her in a hug. He had no right to be upset with Hermione. Draco had duped them both. “Hey. It's okay,” he assured her, rubbing her back as she cried into his jumper. “You can’t know _everything_ , Hermione,” he teased.

But far from cheering her, his comment only made her cry harder. “You forgive me?” she hiccuped, finally drawing back, but not before leaving a chilly, wet stain on Harry's shirtfront.

“We're friends, remember? And we always will be, Hermione,” he said, smiling down on her. She returned it weakly and nodded at him. Then he had a thought. He grinned rakishly, bowed slightly, and offered her his arm. Finally, her smile was genuine, if a little tear-soaked. The two made their way back to the Castle, arm-in-arm again, not speaking another word; not really needing to.

No one remarked on Harry's reappearance or Draco's continued absence. Perhaps they were all accustomed by now to Harry disappearing to fight unknown battles on their behalf. Or perhaps no one really cared. But still, it seemed strange to Harry that such a monumental thing had happened to him, and yet it seemed to go unmarked by so many of the people who surrounded him each day.

He hadn't been completely unmissed, though. The light in Eric's eyes when Harry first walked into the Great Hall with Hermione was wounding. Their dalliance may have meant nothing to Harry, but it only just occurred to him that the same might not be true for the other boy. Harry smiled sadly at him with a small shake of his head, and Eric's expression darkened. He looked at Harry mournfully for a moment. But then he shrugged and, like the sun coming from behind the clouds, gave Harry one of those dazzling, wily smiles before turning back to his friends. Harry heaved a sigh of relief. He was grateful to the boy. Harry's threshold for pain had just about reached its limit, and the exchange could have been so much worse.   

Harry scanned the Staff Table hopefully, but it was depressingly bare. Remus was there, but Hagrid's hulking figure was missing and would always be. Cobbleshot's chair was empty, assuming it had ever been filled. But the absence Harry felt most keenly was Severus'. He sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, swallowing his pain in lieu of the scrambled eggs which sat unappetisingly on his newly materialised plate.

 

 


	44. The Proud Man's Contumely

Severus was not at the Staff Table for Lunch, either. Or for Dinner. He didn't answer Harry's knock at his office door that evening, even though Harry kicked at it for good measure. His depression was ebbing and his frustration was rising; but the door, indifferent to Harry's suffering, remained locked. Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower and lay on his bed, watching the movements of the man who was tormenting him on his Map as if staring at the ink spot stirring in its little box would somehow force Severus to contact him.

Harry was becoming extremely familiar with this dot. It was one of the few remaining, he reflected, that had been personally included by the Map's creators. Severus' spot was irregular, as if it had been dropped onto the parchment and not drawn there. It might not mean anything at all, but Harry thought he read a certain amount of contempt in its shape; or at least, he suspected, in the creation of it. It chafed him. He knew his father and his friends were not horrid people. Well, with the exception of Wormtail, obviously. Sirius, admittedly, possessed a certain moral grey area, but ultimately his godfather was good if not entirely wholesome. And Harry knew for a fact that Remus was both. Harry hated that Severus had only ever seen the worst of them. He hated that those he cared for had so misunderstood this man Harry had now come to care for, and that they seemed to have had no interest in disabusing themselves of their initial impression.

Harry resolved to be different. He resolved to always look past Severus' words and actions to try and see what might be behind them. He held no hope of truly understanding the man. Severus was, perhaps, one of the most complicated persons Harry had ever met. But despite appearances to the contrary, Harry now knew that Severus, too, was good. Genuinely. He was merely also tormented and alone.

He didn't have to be. In his other hand, Harry clutched a different map. It was hand-drawn, as well, though it was considerably smaller and less magical. This one pointed out the serpentine route through the dungeons to Severus' private quarters, the way dashed out in that man's economical but precise scrawl. Miraculously, Mrs. Weasley had rescued it from the wash. It was battered and bloodstained now, but it was still legible. Barely. Harry'd spent a lot of time examining it, too. Severus' personality screamed from every spidery line of it. It made it precious to Harry, like the things in Remus' cardigan had been precious not so long ago.

Harry carefully mulled over his options. The last time he had gone barging in to force a lover's hand, it had ended in disaster, but it had also taught the young man a lesson in patience and discretion. However, Harry had been born with a smaller-than-usual reserve of both, and Severus' reticence had spent it all already. The question was never if, but how and why. The result of this deliberation was that Harry found himself navigating the dungeons once again, but now with slow, deliberate purpose. This journey was not the rushed, do-it-before-I-lose-my-nerve flight he'd made to Remus' quarters that night. This time, Harry knew exactly why he was going. He knew exactly what he sought from the exchange...and beyond. Harry's personal feelings aside--and they were tenacious--Harry refused to let Severus continue on the way he had been. The man bore so much. Not without complaint exactly, but without the expectation of succor or understanding.

That was about to change. Harry _would_ change it. He would force the man to see that support was willingly, even eagerly, offered. He would make Severus understand that he didn't have to suffer alone anymore; that Harry knew, he understood, and he accepted Severus as he was. He _desired_ Severus as he was, with no need for apology or compromise. Harry didn't expect it to be easy, but he knew it to be necessary. If he didn't at least try, he'd regret it for as long as he lived.  

Double-checking his map, Harry regarded the plain stone wall before him and calmly recited every curse word in his vocabulary. The magic combination apparently was 'bloody fuck'. Of course it was, Harry thought with a fleeting, wry grin. He had to bang for quite a long while. Severus was most probably in the lab. Eventually, though, the man jerked his door open with a confused scowl. No doubt, he didn't often hear a knock at his door. Seeing Harry with his determined expression on his doorstep, Severus looked momentarily shocked, then perturbed. He glared at the young man. “How did you get my password?”

Almost a week had passed, and yet there was no 'Hello'. No 'My, you're looking well, Harry'. Nothing. He hadn't expected the man to be effusive, but Harry couldn't deny being more than a little hurt. He reflected Snape's annoyance back at him. “ _Guess_ ,” he responded irritably. Snape snorted.

“Well, thank you for reminding me it's time to change it, in any case. Now what the hell do you want?” he demanded. As difficult as he knew this would be, Harry hadn't anticipated such dismissive hostility. He didn't know how to respond to it, so he ignored the question and pushed past Snape to enter the man's quarters, turning angrily on him when he reached the centre of the sitting room. Snape's lip curled as he shut the door. “Your manners have certainly deteriorated since the last time I saw you,” he sneered. “Not that you had many then, but you at least _begged_ prettily. I blame the werewolf, of course. No doubt he spoiled you during your holiday. Tell me, did you have a little bell by your bed to summon him when you needed your nose wiped?”

It was cruel. Harry hadn't prepared himself for cruel. Resistance, maybe, but not abuse. Harry abruptly realized he hadn't really been prepared for this confrontation at all. But he was in the middle of it already anyway, so he bit back as much of his ache as he was able and refused to rise to the man's bait. “Why haven't I seen you since we were rescued?” Harry demanded quietly, hurt tinting the anger at the edges of his voice. “Why haven't you spoken to me since I got back?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “If you have come here seeking an apology for what happened, Mister Potter-”

"Stop it, Severus,” Harry whispered fiercely, embarrassed by how close to tears he was already. “Just...stop,” he begged.

Snape scowled, sighed as if he resented Harry's emotional display, and ignored it to sweep down the steps to the potions lab. “You know how the floo functions, obviously. Feel free to show yourself out,” he called over his shoulder. Harry refused to be dismissed. He followed closely on his heels and rushed past him when they cleared the stairs to turn and force the man to face him.  

“ _Why are you here_ , Mister Potter?” Snape huffed, exasperated.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Harry spat, properly angry at this point. “What's with this 'Mister Potter' tripe? Have I done something to make you act this way?”

“What do you mean?” Snape said wearily, though he was reluctant to look directly at the young man. “Am I meant to behave differently toward you now, after our ordeal? I expect no such thing from you, Mister Potter. Now, if you would kindly return the favour.”

“Yes, you are meant to respond differently, damn it!” Harry shouted. Snape was already behaving differently, but this wasn't just different from the dungeon. This was different from their time together before. The man was trying to push him away, and Harry wasn't having it, not after all it took to bring them together in the first place. “After _what we did_...” Harry began, but he broke off, momentarily unable to speak for his indignation. This man had touched him in ways no other person had--and not just physically--and his attempt to discard what had been so monumental to the young man left Harry feeling like unwanted rubbish himself. He took a deep breath to compose himself and tried again. “How can you treat me this way? After everything that happened, after everything we said to each other there?” Harry asked, not bothering to try and hide his hurt any longer. Snape looked uncomfortable but scoffed half-heartedly.

“I'm not about to hold you to anything whispered in a prison cell while facing certain death. Nor would I appreciate you doing as such to me," he said flatly. "The disaster the Malfoys orchestrated has been narrowly averted, no thanks to your recklessness,” he added with a sneer. “And the protections have been destroyed. So, congratulations. You are now free to fuck whomever you wish, Mister Potter.”

"Stop calling me that!”

“Is it not _your name?”_ Snape shouted in response, glowering at Harry.

“Severus-”

“ _You will address me as Professor Snape_ ,” the man demanded, his voice shaking with some emotion Harry couldn't identify. “We have discussed this before at length.”

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” Harry sneered. He'd had just about enough of this charade. Severus was trying to convince him he was just the same old sour bastard he'd always seemed to be, but Harry knew better now. Severus couldn't simply pull that tired mask back on and pretend Harry had never seen what's behind it. 

But Harry's offense faltered when Snape suddenly stalked over to him, aggressively invading Harry's personal space to stoop over the boy. Harry staggered back, startled by the man's vicious expression, and slightly disturbed a glass construction that sat on the table at his back. Snape pressed forward until his face was only inches from Harry's, and his eyes narrowed. “What did you _think_ would happen, Mister Potter?” he asked in an icy hiss. “Did you really assume we would crawl out of that dungeon and live Happily Ever After? Just because I shoved my cock up your arse to keep from _eating you alive_?” he spat, his voice rising. “This is not some fairy tale, and I am not Prince _Fucking_ Charming!”

“But you aren't some villain, either! So stop pretending to be,” Harry cried. The man's proximity and aggression unnerved him, causing his voice to be less confident than he intended as he clung to the table behind him for support. “We aren't enemies anymore,” Harry argued, trying to sort through his thoughts. But it was so difficult to do with Snape staring at him so critically, with him leaning in so close; not to be intimate, but to intimidate. Harry set his jaw defiantly. “You _get_ me, Severus,” he insisted, “in a way no one else does. You seem to understand exactly what I need, and not just what I want or what's needed of me. And _that_ isn’t the result of some accidental memory or virgin bloodlust," he challenged, his surety growing by the moment. "I think you know as well as I do that this isn’t something as sudden or superficial as you're making it out to be.”

Snape seemed completely unmoved by Harry's speech, though, and the boy was at a loss, his composure rapidly crumbling. He'd come to reach out to the man, and here he was shrinking from his hostility. “Severus _,_ ” Harry pleaded, his breath coming in hiccups now, “ _Please_.” He lay a hand on one of Snape's rigidly crossed arms, hoping a gentle touch would remind the man of the several they'd shared already. But Severus simply glared at it before suddenly snarling and jerking himself from Harry's grasp. Then, without warning, he took Harry by the collar and yanked him to the side.  

The young man then watched in horror as Snape raked half the contents of the table Harry had been leaning against to the floor. The intricate glass contraption shattered into millions of tiny shards. But before Harry could process the tragedy of the ruined potion and its equipment, Severus turned Harry roughly and bent him over the workspace, pinning him there with the almost painful pressure of a single hand pressed between the young man's shoulder blades. Harry's shock bled from him slowly, but once it had, he struggled, clawing at the tabletop. He was confused and upset by this violence. He could not budge himself. Harry tried to calm down, to remind himself to look further, to not be deceived, to try to understand Severus' motivations; but he was given no opportunity to do so. When Harry felt a spell unfasten his trousers, his mind stopped working. Snape's free hand then wrenched them down around Harry's thighs, and Harry could not stave off his panic any longer. The young man felt exposed, embarrassed and frightened. He watched as the same hand that had undressed him descended into the cauldron of healing salve that still stood on the tabletop by Harry's head, and then immediately Harry felt the cool smear of the substance in the cleft of his arse cheeks, and he gasped.

This was not foreplay. This was the barest of preparations. Snape's stiff cock pressed against him; not hard enough to penetrate, only hard enough to hurt; and Harry's heart fractured in his chest.

“Tell me you want it, Harry,” Snape snarled mockingly through clenched teeth, his still-slick fingers finding purchase in Harry's hair. “ _Tell me_ you _want_ this!” he bellowed, making the young man's ears ring.

Harry's tears dripped from the tip of his nose and onto the tabletop beneath his face. He was shaking. He felt betrayed, disillusioned.

But most of all, Harry felt stubborn. He'd come down those steps with one purpose, and that purpose had not yet been met. Severus couldn't mean this. Harry didn't know why this was happening, but he remembered tenderness in this man, concern and gentleness. Maybe he was carrying the act too far, but it _had_ to be an act. Severus had almost died trying to save Harry's life, for gods' sake. Harry decided he could endure a little pain in order to return the favour.

 _“Yes,”_ he whispered reluctantly through gritted teeth, his chest heaving with anguish and dread. His hands went to the edge of the table above his head, clutching it. His knuckles were white with the strength of his grip as he attempted to prepare himself, though he knew there was really no way to ready oneself for what was about to happen.

Snape didn't respond. Harry thought he might not have heard him. “Yes!” he keened. “I want _you_ , damn it! I want the good _and_ the bad. I want...” He trembled, took a deep breath, and steeled himself. _“I want you even if it hurts,”_ he finished quietly, as though to himself. And then he set his forehead on the surface of the table and held his breath, waiting.

The pressure on his back and on his opening abruptly disappeared, but Harry stayed where he was.

“Get up, Harry,” Snape said, his voice trembling. It was not a demand, not a suggestion, but a plea. Still, Harry didn't move. _“Get up!”_ Severus cried, distressed. Slowly, Harry relaxed his grip and dared a look behind him.

Severus had his back turned to him, his palms flat against the countertop by the sink, his arms straight and his head hung between his shoulders. Calming himself by degrees, Harry eased himself to his feet and pulled his trousers up over his hips with quivering fingers before he approached the man. He drew close enough to be intimate but not enough to touch. Harry's tears had not yet stopped, but he ignored them as he tried to see Severus through his trembling curtain of fine black hair.

“Get out,” the man said quietly, his voice strained.

“Fuck you,” Harry replied, a barely repressed rage in his voice. He leaned closer, but the man still would not look at him. “You tell _me_ , Severus. Tell me what _you_ want,” Harry challenged in an angry whisper. Snape scoffed, unmoving.

“Since when has it ever mattered what I wanted?” he muttered bitterly.

“ _What do you want,_ Severus?” Harry persisted.

“Harry,” he said, his voice brittle. “I'm not...You're not meant for-”

“I didn't ask you what you think you deserve!" Harry barked, frustrated by the man's stubbornness. Nothing in the Severus' life was simple, but Harry determined to be the one thing that was easy. Unconditional. If only Severus would allow himself the indulgence, allow himself to conceive that he deserved it, then Harry could be his happiness. "I asked what you _wanted_ ,” he finished more quietly, his voice hinting at his hopeful desperation.

Finally, Severus lifted his face to Harry. It was wary and miserable, ashamed and puzzled. He looked as close to tears as Harry had ever seen the man, but Harry's expression showed no condemnation for what had just happened. Severus simply couldn't seem to fathom it. He swallowed thickly and took a shuddering breath. “What I want,” he whispered hesitantly, “is a young man.” He turned to Harry. His arms rose as if he wanted to envelope him but couldn't quite bring himself, as if he felt he had no right to do so. “One who is foolish. And brave. And beautiful,” he admitted quietly. He looked at Harry as if he'd never seen him before and was taking in every curve of his face for the first time.

“You had better be referring to me, Severus,” Harry said, with only a hint of play in his stony expression. “Or else I'll have to go ask Eric what he's doing this evening.” Satisfyingly, the man responded exactly as Harry suspected he would. His expression hardened and his jaw clenched. “Say it, Severus,” Harry said, his breathing shallow but his voice smooth. He snatched one of the man's hovering hands and placed it firmly on the small of Harry's back, holding it there. “Say ' _This is mine_.'”

Severus' brow furrowed uncertainly, but his gaze fell to Harry's lips. “Mine,” he repeated softly. It was almost a question, but the pressure of his hand at Harry's back increased and Harry let his own fall away.

“That's right,” Harry said firmly. “Now, Severus...take what is yours.” His eyes held challenge, stubbornness, invitation.

And after a long moment's hesitation, the man did as he was told. His timidity fell away and he snatched Harry to him with a snarl, pressing the lengths of their bodies together. His hands roamed, up to Harry's shoulder and down to his arse and back and between. And Harry didn't simply yield. He returned the man's possessive passion, snaking his arms inside Severus' robes to claw at his back, to grip one, small, perfect arse cheek through stiff black linen. Severus seemed confused by the comfortable and willing ease with which his actions were reciprocated.

 _“Mine,”_ Severus whispered again, sounding thrilled and amazed by the truth of it. His hand came to Harry’s face, sliding off Harry’s glasses and tenderly brushing away the last traces of the young man's tears. Then he leaned down and kissed him, far more sweetly than anything that had ever passed between them before. When he drew back, he licked his lips as if he could still taste Harry there. He opened his eyes slowly as if surprised to find Harry still standing before him, despite that he still cupped the young man's face in his palm. Harry raised his own hand to Severus', pressing it to his cheek, and he leaned forward with his lips parted, his eyes heavily lidded.

“ _Take_ _me_ , Severus,” he whispered. The man hesitated for only a heartbeat.

In a swirl of limbs and linen that left Harry's head spinning, Severus swept Harry away from the sink and backed him against the wall. He slid his hands down Harry's arms to claim his wrists, but instead of pinning them as before, Severus gently drew Harry's hands up and pressed their palms together, twining his fingers in Harry's own. The younger man's breath was stolen, not now by pressure or violence, but by the sheer sublimity of the moment.

Their kiss was slow; deep but achingly tender, as if some things simply could not be expressed in any other way and the two had so much to tell one another. But it wasn't long before its sweetness evolved, grew into a heated passion that was almost a living thing. It breathed fire, out from Harry's mouth and into Severus' and back again. Their palms parted to find new territory to conquer, and this time, Harry took the lead.

Severus seemed content to simply taste him, every surface of Harry's mouth, but Harry wanted to show Severus he had more to offer. He reached for the man's crotch, causing Severus to gasp against Harry's tongue. Harry shoved Severus' pants out of the way so he could run the flat of his palm carefully up the length of Severus' erection. He loved the resulting bite of the man's fingers at his waist and wasted no time in wringing much more from him. _“Harry,”_ Severus groaned, his forehead falling to rest on the young man’s shoulder as Harry applied every trick Eric had taught him. This is what his time in the alcove had been for, he realized. Only this. Harry was instantly addicted to the sound of his name falling in shudders from Severus' lips in that smooth, deep, chocolaty voice of his. He buried his face in Severus' neck and applied his novice but effective finesse with more fervor, but Severus' hand fell to his, stilling him.

“No,” he panted, drinking in the younger man's eyes as if he subsisted not on blood but on Harry's gaze. “ _In_ you. Harry...please,” he whispered.

Harry moaned at the request, took Severus' hand and pressed it against Harry's answering hardness. He almost came then and there, not from the sensation of the man's hand on his cock, but from the expression on Severus' face. The way his eyes drifted to a close and his shoulders shuddered as he sought to grasp Harry through the fabric of his trousers was ecstatic.

“Why are you asking, Severus? _Take_ ,” he whispered emphatically. “I belong to you now. We belong to each other.”

Finally came The Growl. The sound of it sent a shiver up Harry's spine and his head fell back against the wall. Severus grasped Harry's thighs and hoisted the young man. Harry eagerly wrapped his legs around Severus' hips, wrapped his arms around the man's neck, and allowed himself to be carried to the conveniently cleared table to be laid down on it.

“Beautiful,” Severus muttered to himself, shoving Harry's shirt up to reveal his stomach and chest before lowering his lips to them. “Beautiful,” he mumbled against Harry's skin as Harry writhed, sinking his hands into Severus' hair. Which was a revelation all its own. It was not greasy, as Harry had once thought. It was simply fine and soft as silk.

“Gods, Harry,” Severus gasped, tugging frantically at the young man's still open trousers. He stripped them, shoes and all, and tossed them to the treacherously glass-strewn floor before stepping back to take in all of Harry.  Somehow the young man felt more naked, spread across the Potions table with his shirt bunched under his arms, than he had in the dungeon. Because even though he'd known Severus could see him then, now _Harry_ could see. He could see Severus see him, could see the lust there and the wonder and the entreaty. Though, amazingly, Harry didn't feel self-conscious. He craved Severus' eyes on his skin like he had craved his lips before.

“Take off your robes,” Harry said, surprised by his own calm and the sound of authority in his voice. “And your shirt. Take them off.” Though his erection already hung from his open pants, Severus hesitated, and his eyes cut to Harry's. The young man raised himself to his elbows, his brow furrowed. “Severus? Let me see you.” It wasn't a request. Severus looked again at Harry's sprawled form, but now in a calculating manner as if he were mentally comparing it to his own.

“ _Severus_.”   

The man met Harry's eyes again and locked them there as his hands went woodenly to his buttons, peeling them open one by one with clear reluctance. But Harry's eyes quickly fell to what was gradually being uncovered, and he felt his mouth water as more and more was revealed. Severus shrugged off his clothing with stoic resignation and stood bare-chested, his trousers open and hanging precariously from his hips as he waited, it seemed, for Harry's criticism.

But Harry had none. None whatsoever. Severus' body was so _him_ , exactly as Harry had imagined it. Thin. Ashen. Marred.

Perfect.

Harry leaned forward and reached for it eagerly, surprising the man with his enthusiasm. He pulled Severus snugly between his thighs, running his hands hungrily over the pale flesh as Severus looked down on him in bafflement. Then acceptance. Then desire. He grasped Harry's hips to drag him to the edge of the table, grinding their lengths together in the process and causing them both to gasp.

It was Harry who reached over and dipped his hand in the cauldron this time in order to slick Severus' cock for him, lifting his own knees and guiding it where he wanted it, where he needed it. As he did so, Severus' hand found its way to Harry's hair and tugged his head to the side. It was not rough or painful, only firm, and at just enough of an angle to communicate control. Harry moaned even before Severus buried his face in Harry’s neck.

There was no two-finger ritual this time. There was only careful control. The healing salve took care of any tears as they occurred. Harry found it hurt in the most delicious way. He might have requested Severus take him more roughly if he had been capable of speech. Harry hung boneless in the man's arms long before he finished sliding home. Severus didn't hesitate this time to start pumping the young man. He answered Harry moan for moan as he drove them both quickly toward climax, and the clench of Harry's orgasm wrung Severus' from him as well so that they came almost simultaneously.

They clung to one another after, but the sweat that covered them almost defeating their grips. Their slack and swollen lips first found then lapped faintly at one another. Their breath came in ragged gasps. Then Severus reached between them, and Harry could feel his fingers slide through the mess that wet both their stomachs before Severus brought them, cum-slicked, to his own lips. His tongue darted out to taste them as the young man watched, practically causing Harry to orgasm a second time.

Severus licked his lips and moaned, his eyes fluttering momentarily closed. “Almost as sweet as blood,” he rasped, pouring Harry's flaccid body back onto the table. He slipped out of him as he bent to lave the remainder of the stuff from the young man's skin. “My gods, Harry,” he exclaimed in a shredded gasp. “I could live off your expulsions.” He climbed the younger man, clambering onto the table to hover over him and share his newfound bounty. Harry whimpered weakly into the kiss, which was rich and thick and absolutely transcendent. Severus pulled back to look deep into his eyes for a long moment that felt suspended in time. “I could drown in you, Harry,” he whispered, amazed.

“I feel like I've already drowned in you,” Harry said through a tired smile, reaching up to stroke the damp hair from Severus' face. He was exhausted and fading quickly, even though he wanted nothing more than to stay awake and savor the sensation of having Severus in his arms.

“I suppose it's true after all, then,” Severus said with a small smile which he moved quickly to hide in Harry's neck as the younger man drifted off. The roughened velvet texture of Severus' voice was as good as a lullaby. “You were the death of me. La Petite Mort. And I'll happily die a thousand little deaths in you still to come, Harry. If you'll let me.”

“Promise?” Harry mumbled happily, just as he slipped into sex-sated slumber.

Harry woke a short time later in Severus' bed. It was not the cot in the lab. It was the small thing Harry had occupied weeks before. Severus was dozing beside him. The bed wasn't really big enough for both of them, but that made it even nicer, as the man was wrapped around Harry just to prevent himself from rolling off the side. Harry looked around him at the spartan room and reflected on his long journey back to it, on how often he'd longed for it since last leaving it. He felt peaceful, safe. Happy. Harry looked back down at the man in his arms, and he smiled.

Harry had finally come Home. 


	45. Your Pardon and My Return Shall Be the End of My Business

“You are late for your Detention, Mr. Potter,” Severus said with mock sternness, his arms crossed, when Harry came skipping down the stairs. He'd given Harry a key to his office so that the young man could floo in whenever he felt ready in the evenings.

“Yeah, I was just stopping by the kitchens for a bite of something,” Harry mumbled through a mouthful of said something. “I brought you something, as well. Blood sausage?” he offered, waving the raw thing in Severus' direction. The man sneered.

“Gods, Harry,” he said, disgusted. “Throw that thing away, will you?” He watched as Harry did as he was told, the young man chuckling to himself. And then Severus slipped his arm around Harry from behind, his hand sliding south to stroke the front of Harry's trousers. “I'd prefer a different sort, anyway,” he purred.

Harry shivered. “Merlin's Beard, you've just been storing it up all these years, haven't you?” he moaned as Severus pet him more firmly.

“You object?”

“ _Gods_ , no,” Harry gasped, turning to slip his arms around the man's neck and press their foreheads, and their hips, together.

“Wouldn't matter if you did,” Severus informed him dismissively, pressing back. Harry grinned. He knew Severus would never take him against his will, but they enjoyed pretending.

“Do you think Dumbledore suspects?” he asked absently, tilting his head back to give Severus' mouth better access to his throat.

“And what is Albus going to do?” the man scoffed into Harry's collarbone. “Fire me?” he proposed, his deft fingers undoing Harry's belt. “Expel you?” he asked Harry's navel. “I think it is safe to say, Harry, that you and I are not subject to the dictates of others,” he muttered, his concentration now elsewhere as he settled before the young man's crotch, fingers firmly clasping Harry’s hipbones. “Well... _I'm_ not,” he added with a twitch of his eyebrow. “You're still subject to mine.”

Harry grinned impishly down at him. “So says the man on his knees,” he smirked, then gasped as Severus nipped at him through his pants. “So,” he panted. “Did you have any _dic_ tates in mind?” he asked, lightly thrusting his pelvis.

Severus stopped his attentions and gave Harry a withering look, which was rather ruined by the angle. “You are so immature sometimes.”

Harry grinned more broadly, raking his fingers through the man's hair. “I'm sixteen. What'd you expect?”

“Stop reminding me,” Severus groaned, contemplating Harry's crotch once again, but with a disgruntled expression, as if it had somehow offended him.

“No," Harry said softly, his grin slipping into something hungrier as he pushed at Severus' shoulder, forcing him to give Harry room to sink to his knees in front of the man, bringing their mouths level, “let me distract you.”

 

The End

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. Finally. :p HUGE thank you to my betas, of both the distant and recent past. AngelEmma, Ziri, laquinohabla, limbomonkey, FairAris, Arcane_Theorem, xikum, hereantigone, and of course DustyWolf and Wayfarer_Tree. (I know I must have forgotten one or two, but you know who you are and have my eternal gratitude.) You girls kept me In Character and on track. 
> 
> I hope the sequel doesn't disappoint. It's getting sticky. In the best of ways. ;) 
> 
> Also, I'm plugging Sacrosanct again, because I love it. Go read it. I promise not to tell Severus.
> 
> Also also, someone wrote a cookie for PMC when it was still ickle. You should check it out: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1901206/1/


	46. I'm a Rebel, Dottie

Okay. I realize this 'new chapter' thing is cheating. But I'm Lokean. Breaking rules is kinda what I do. *flips up collar on cardigan* *affixes chip to shoulder*

So here's the dealio, yo: I'm looking for a beta. After letting PMC languish in fic limbo for 10 years, the plan when I picked it back up was always to just finish the damned thing and then have someone help me comb through it thoroughly. And so I'm in the market for a ***final*** beta, if anyone is interested. I spent too much of my life on this thing to leave it all raggedy like this. It chafes. CHAFES!

The thing is, it is lacking in _so_ many ways. It needs a Britpick, and also a technical sweep. I fail at punctuation and the English language in general. I know there are way too many paragraph breaks and that many of them are in the wrong places. And if someone wants to give me a brutal style/tone/wording critique I'm totally open to that too. Some parts are just awkward as hell.

It's just that, twelve years ago, I had a dream. *stares nostalgically off into the distance* I have this vision in my mind of what PMC _could_ be, but I can't make it that way by myself.

Soooooo...if you're interested in helping: [apathys_priestess@yahoo.com](mailto:apathys_priestess@yahoo.com) 

 

Sadly, all I have to offer in return is fic. But I promise a one-shot to your specifications if you agree to help. Any pairing. Any genre. ANYTHING. Oh, and also my eternal gratitude and shit. But you're probably more interested in the fic. ;)

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Proud Man's Contumely: Alternate Scenes: Eric](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932814) by [Slytherkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Slytherkins)
  * [The Proud Man's Contumely: Alternate Scenes: Remus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951810) by [Slytherkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Slytherkins)
  * [The Proud Man's Contumely: Alternate Scenes: Cobbleshot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993447) by [Slytherkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Slytherkins)
  * [The Proud Man's Contumely: Alternate Scenes: Snape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995862) by [Slytherkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Slytherkins)




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